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THE  WORKS 

OF 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES— I 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE 
BREAKFAST-TABLE 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE 
BREAKFAST-TABLE 

EVERY  MAN  HIS  OWN  BOSWELL 


B7 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


HENRY    FROWDE 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON,  NEW  YORK  AND  TORONTO 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

Born,  Cambridge,  Mass.,       .         August  29,  1809 
Died,  Boston,        .        .        .        October  7,  1894 

' '  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast- Table  "  was  first  published 
in  the  year  1857.  In  "The  World's  Classics"  it  was 
published  in  1904,  and  reprinted  in  1906. 


TCRXBCLL  AND  SPEAKS,  PRINTERS,   EDINBURGH. 


THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 
THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 


I  WAS  just  going  to  say,  when  I  was  interrupted,  that 
one  of  the  many  ways  of  classifying  minds  is  under  the 
heads  of  arithmetical  and  algebraical  intellects.  All 
economical  and  practical  wisdom  is  an  extension  or 
variation  of  the  following  arithmetical  formula:  2  +  2 
=  4.  Every  philosophical  proposition  has  the  more 
general  character  of  the  expression  a  +  b  =  c.  We  are 
mere  operatives,  empirics,  and  egotists,  until  we  learn 
to  think  in  letters  instead  of  figures. 

They  all  stared.  There  is  a  divinity  student  lately 
come  among  us  to  whom  I  commonly  address  remarks 
like  the  above,  allowing  him  to  take  a  certain  share  in 
the  conversation,  so  far  as  assent  or  pertinent  questions 
are  involved.  He  abused  his  liberty  on  this  occasion 
by  presuming  to  say  that  Leibnitz  had  the  same  ob- 
servation.— No,  sir,  I  replied,  he  has  not.  But  he 
said  a  mighty  good  thing  about  mathematics,  that 
sounds  something  like  it,  and  you  found  it,  not  in 
the  original,  but  quoted  by  Dr  Thomas  Reid.  I 
will  tell  the  company  what  he  did  say,  one  of  these 
days. 

If  I  belong  to  a  Society  of  Mutual  Admira- 
tion ? — I  blush  to  say  that  I  do  not  at  this  present 
moment.  I  once  did,  however.  It  was  the  first 
association  to  which  I  ever  heard  the  term  applied  ; 
a  body  of  scientific  young  men  in  a  great  foreign  city 
who  admired  their  teacher,  and  to  some  extent  each 
other.  Many  of  them  deserved  it ;  they  have  become 


2  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

famous  since.  It  amuses  me  to  hear  the  talk  of  one 
of  those  beings  described  by  Thackeray — 

"  Letters  four  do  form  his  name  " — 

about  a  social  development  which  belongs  to  the  very 
noblest  stage  of  civilization.  All  generous  companies 
of  artist,  authors,  philanthropists,  men  of  science,  are, 
or  ought  to  be,  Societies  of  Mutual  Admiration.  A 
man  of  genius,  or  any  kind  of  superiority,  is  not 
debarred  from  admiring  the  same  quality  in  another, 
nor  the  other  from  returning  his  admiration.  They 
may  even  associate  together  and  continue  to  think 
highly  of  each  other.  And  so  of  a  dozen  such  men,  if 
any  one  place  is  fortunate  enough  to  hold  so  many. 
The  being  referred  to  above  assumes  several  false 
premises.  First,  that  men  of  talent  necessarily  hate 
each  other.  Secondly,  that  intimate  knowledge  or 
habitual  association  destroys  our  admiration  of  persons 
whom  we  esteemed  highly  at  a  distance.  Thirdly, 
that  a  circle  of  clever  fellows,  who  meet  together  to 
dine  and  have  a  good  time,  have  signed  a  constitutional 
compact  to  glorify  themselves,  and  to  put  down  him 
and  the  fraction  of  the  human  race  not  belonging  to 
their  number.  Fourthly,  that  it  is  an  outrage  that  he 
is  not  asked  to  join  them. 

Here  the  company  laughed  a  good  deal,  and  the  old 
gentleman  who  sits  opposite  said, "  That's  it !  that's  it  I" 

I  continued,  for  1  was  in  the  talking  vein.  As  to 
clever  people's  hating  each  other,  I  think  a  little  extra 
talent  does  sometimes  make  people  jealous.  They 
become  irritated  by  perpetual  attempts  and  failures, 
and  it  hurts  their  tempers  and  dispositions.  Unpre- 
tending mediocrity  is  good,  and  genius  is  glorious ; 
but  a  weak  flavour  of  genius  in  an  essentially  common^ 
person  is  detestable.  It  spoils  the  grand  neutrality  of 
a  commonplace  character,  as  the  rinsings  of  an  un- 
washed wine-glass  spoil  a  draught  of  fair  water.  No 
wonder  the  poor  fellow  we  spoke  of,  who  always 
belongs  to  this  class  of  slightly  flavoured  mediocrities, 
is  puzzled  and  vexed  by  the  strange  sight  of  a  dozen 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  3 

men  of  capacity  working  and  playing  together  in 
harmony.  He  and  his  fellows  are  always  fighting. 
With  them  familiarity  naturally  breeds  contempt.  If 
they  ever  praise  each  other's  bad  drawings,  or  broken- 
winded  novels,  or  spavined  verses,  nobody  ever  sup- 
posed it  was  from  admiration  ;  it  was  simply  a  contract 
between  themselves  and  a  publisher  or  dealer. 

If  the  Mutuals  have  really  nothing  among  them 
worth  admiring,  that  alters  the  question.  But  if  they 
are  men  with  noble  powers  and  qualities,  let  me  tell 
you,  that,  next  to  youthful  love  and  family  affections, 
there  is  no  human  sentiment  better  than  that  which 
unites  the  Societies  of  Mutual  Admiration.  And  what 
would  literature  or  art  be  without  such  associations? 
Who  can  tell  what  we  owe  to  the  Mutual  Admiration 
Society  of  which  Shakspeare,  and  Ben  Jonson,  and 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were  members  ?  Or  to  that  of 
which  Addison  and  Steele  formed  the  centre,  and 
which  gave  us  the  Spectator?  Or  to  that  where 
Johnson,  and  Goldsmith,  and  Burke,  and  Reynolds, 
and  Beauclerk,  and  Boswell,  most  admiring  among  all 
admirers,  met  together?  Was  there  any  great  harm 
in  the  fact  that  the  Irvings  and  Paulding  wrote  in 
company?  or  any  unpardonable  cabal  in  the  literary 
union  of  Verplanck  and  Bryant  and  Sands,  and  as 
many  more  as  they  chose  to  associate  with  them  ? 

The  poor  creature  does  not  know  what  he  is  talking 
about,  when  he  abuses  this  noblest  of  institutions. 
Let  him  inspect  its  mysteries  through  the  knot-hole  he 
has  secured,  but  not  use  that  orifice  as  a  medium  for 
his  popgun.  Such  a  society  is  the  crown  of  a  literary 
metropolis ;  if  a  town  has  not  material  for  k,  and 
spirit  and  good  feeling  enough  to  organize  it,  it  is  a 
mere  caravansary,  fit  for  a  man  of  genius  to  lodge  in, 
but  not  to  live  in.  Foolish  people  hate  and  dread  and 
envy  such  an  association  of  men  of  varied  powers  and 
influence,  because  it  is  lofty,  serene,  impregnable,  and, 
by  the  necessity  of  the  case,  exclusive.  Wise  ones  are 
prouder  of  the  title  M.S.M.A.  than  of  all  their  other 
honours  put  together. 


4  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

All  generous  minds  have  a  horror  of  what  are 

commonly  called  "  facts."  They  are  the  brute  beasts 
of  the  intellectual  domain.  Who  does  not  know 
fellows  that  always  have  an  ill-conditioned  fact  or  two 
which  they  lead  after  them  into  decent  company  like 
so  many  bull-dogs,  ready  to  let  them  slip  at  every 
ingenious  suggestion,  or  convenient  generalization,  or 
pleasant  fancy  ?  I  allow  no  ' '  facts "  at  this  table. 
What?  Because  bread  is  good  and  wholesome  and 
necessary  and  nourishing,  shall  you  thrust  a  crumb 
into  my  windpipe  while  I  am  talking  ?  Do  not  these 
muscles  of  mine  represent  a  hundred  loaves  of  bread  ? 
and  is  not  my  thought  the  abstract  of  ten  thousand  of 
these  crumbs  of  truth  with  which  you  would  choke  off 
my  speech  ? 

[The  above  remark  must  be  conditioned  and  qualified 
for  the  vulgar  mind.  The  reader  will  of  course  under- 
stand the  precise  amount  of  seasoning  which  must  be 
added  to  it  before  he  adopts  it  as  one  of  the  axioms  of 
his  life.  The  speaker  disclaims  all  responsibility  for 
its  abuse  in  incompetent  hands.] 

This  business  of  conversation  is  a  very  serious 
matter.  There  are  men  that  it  weakens  one  to  talk 
with  an  hour  more  than  a  day's  fasting  would  do. 
Mark  this  that  I  am  going  to  say,  for  it  is  as  good  as 
a  working  professional  man's  advice,  and  costs  you 
nothing.  It  is  better  to  lose  a  pint  of  blood  from 
your  veins  than  to  have  a  nerve  tapped.  Nobody 
measures  your  nervous  force  as  it  runs  away,  nor 
bandages  your  brain  and  marrow  after  the  operation. 

There  are  men  of  esprit  who  are  excessively  exhaust- 
ing to  some  people.  They  are  the  talkers  who  have 
what  may  be  called  jerky  minds.  Their  thoughts  do 
not  run  in  the  natural  order  of  sequence.  They  say 
bright  things  on  all  possible  subjects,  but  their  zigzags 
rack  you  to  death.  After  a  jolting  half-hour  with  one 
of  those  jerky  companions,  talking  with  a  dull  friend 
affords  great  relief.  It  is  like  taking  the  cat  in  your 
lap  after  holding  a  squirrel. 

What  a  comfort  a  dull  but  kindly  person  is,  to  be 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  5 

sure,  at  times.  A  ground-glass  shade  over  a  gas-lamp 
does  not  bring  more  solace  to  our  dazzled  eyes  than 
such  a  one  to  our  minds. 

' '  Do  not  dull  people  bore  you  ? "  said  one  of  the 
lady  boarders — the  same  that  sent  me  her  autograph- 
book  last  week,  with  a  request  for  a  few  original 
stanzas,  not  remembering  that  ' '  The  Pactolian "  pays 
me  five  dollars  a  line  for  everything  I  write  in  its 
columns. 

"  Madam/'  said  I  (she  and  the  century  were  in  their 
teens  together),  "  all  men  are  bores,  except  when  we 
want  them.  There  never  was  but  one  man  whom  I 
would  trust  with  my  latch-key. " 

"  Who  might  that  favoured  person  be?" 

"  Zimmermann." 

The  men  of  genius  that  I  fancy  most  have 

erectile  heads  like  the  cobra-di-capello.    You  remember 
what  they  tell  of  William  Pinkney,  the  great  pleader  : 
how  in  his  eloquent  paroxysms  the  veins  of  his  neck 
would  swell  and  his  face  flush  and  his  eyes  glitter, 
until  he  seemed   on   the   verge    of   apoplexy.      The 
hydraulic  arrangements  for  supplying  the  brain  with 
blood  are  only  second  in  importance  to  its  own  organ- 
ization.    The  bulbous-headed  fellows  that  steam  well 
when  they  are  at  work  are  the  men  that  draw  big 
audiences  and  give  us  marrowy  books  and  pictures. 
It  is  a  good  sign  to  have  one's  feet  grow  cold  when  he 
is  writing.     A  great  writer  and  speaker  once  told  me 
that  he  often  wrote  with  his  feet  in  hot  water  :  but  for 
this,  all  his  blood  would  have  run  into  his  head,  as  the 
mercury    sometimes    withdraws    into    the    ball   of  a 
thermometer. 

You  don't  suppose  that  my  remarks  made  at 

this  table  are  like  so  many  postage  stamps,  do  you, 
each  to  be  only  once  uttered?      If  you  do,  you  are 
mistaken.     He  must  be  a  poor  creature  that  does  'not 
often   repeat  himself.      Imagine   the    author    of   the 
excellent   piece    of  advice,   "  Know    thyself,"   never 
alluding   to  that  sentiment  again  during  the   course 
of  a  protracted  existence  '     Why,  the  truths  a  man 


6  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

carries  about  with  him  are  his  tools  ;  and  do  you  think 
a  carpenter  is  bound  to  use  the  same  plane  but  once  to 
smooth  a  knotty  board  with,  or  to  hang  up  his  hammer 
after  it  has  driven  its  first  nail  ?  I  shall  never  repeat 
a  conversation,  but  an  idea  often.  I  shall  use  the 
same  types  when  I  like,  but  not  commonly  the  same 
stereotypes.  A  thought  is  often  original  though  you 
have  uttered  it  a  hundred  times.  It  has  come  to  you 
over  a  new  route,  by  a  new  and  express  train  of 
associations. 

Sometimes,  but  rarely,  one  may  be  caught  making 
the  same  speech  twice  over,  and  yet  be  held  blameless. 
Thus,  a  certain  lecturer,  after  performing  in  an  inland 
city,  where  dwells  a  litteratrice  of  note,  was  invited  to 
meet  her  and  others  over  the  social  teacup.  She 
pleasantly  referred  to  his  many  wanderings  in  his  new 
occupation.  "  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  like  the 
Huma,  the  bird  that  never  lights,  being  always  in  the 
cars,  as  he  is  always  on  the  wing."  Years  elapsed. 
The  lecturer  visited  the  same  place  once  more  for  the 
same  purpose.  Another  social  cup  after  the  lecture, 
and  a  second  meeting  with  the  distinguished  lady. 

"  You  are  constantly  going  from  place  to  place," 
she  said.  "  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  like  the 
Huma,"  and  finished  the  sentence  as  before. 

What  horrors,  when  it  flashed  over  him  that  he  had 
made  this  fine  speech,  word  for  word,  twice  over  ! 
Yet  it  was  not  true,  as  the  lady  perhaps  might  have 
fairly  inferred,  that  he  had  embellished  his  conversation 
with  the  Huma  daily  during  that  whole  interval  of 
years.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  never  once  thought 
of  the  odious  fowl  until  the  recurrence  of  precisely  the 
same  circumstances  brought  up  precisely  the  same 
idea.  He  ought  to  have  been  proud  of  the  accuracy  of 
his  mental  adjustments.  Given  certain  factors,  and  a 
sound  brain  should  always  evolve  the  same  fixed 
product  with  the  certainty  of  Babbage's  calculating 
machine. 

What  a  satire,  by  the  way,  is  that  machine  on 

the  mere  mathematician  '  A  Frankenstein-monster,  a 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  7 

thing  without  brains  and  without  heart,  too  stupid  to 
make  a  blunder,  that  turns  out  results  like  a  corn- 
sheller  ;  and  never  grows  any  wiser  or  better,  though 
it  grind  a  thousand  bushels  of  them  ! 

I  have  an  immense  respect  for  a  man  of  talents  plus 
"  the  mathematics."  But  the  calculating  power  alone 
should  seem  to  be  the  least  human  of  qualities,  and  to 
have  the  smallest  amount  of  reason  in  it ;  since  a 
machine  can  be  made  to  do  the  work  of  three  or  four 
calculators,  and  better  than  any  one  of  them.  Some- 
times I  ha/e  been  troubled  that  I  had  not  a  deeper 
intuitive  apprehension  of  the  relations  of  numbers. 
But  the  triumph  of  the  cyphering  hand-organ  has 
consoled  me.  I  always  fancy  I  can  hear  the  wheels 
clicking  in  a  calculator's  brain.  The  power  of  dealing 
with  numbers  is  a  kind  of  "detached  lever"  arrange- 
ment, which  may  be  put  into  a  mighty  poor  watch.  I 
suppose  it  is  about  as  common  as  the  power  of  moving 
the  ears  voluntarily,  which  is  a  moderately  rare 
endowment. 

Little  localized  powers,  and  little  narrow  streaks 

of  specialized  knowledge,  are  things  men  are  very  apt 
to  be  conceited  about.  Nature  is  very  wise  ;  but  for 
this  encouraging  principle  how  many  small  talents  and 
little  accomplishments  would  be  neglected !  Talk  about 
conceit  as  much  as  you  like,  it  is  to  human  character 
what  salt  is  to  the  ocean ;  it  keeps  it  sweet,  and  renders 
it  endurable.  Say  rather,  it  is  like  the  natural  unguent 
of  the  sei-fowl's  plumage,  which  enables  him  to  shed 
the  rain  that  falls  on  him  and  the  wave  in  which  he 
dips.  When  one  has  had  all  his  conceit  taken  out  of 
him,  when  he  has  lost  all  his  illusions,  his  feathers  will 
soon  soak  through,  and  he  will  fly  no  more. 

"  So  you  admire  conceited  people,  do  you?"  said 
the  youn?  lady  who  had  come  to  the  city  to  be  finished 
off  for — the  duties  of  life. 

I  am  tfraid  you  do  not  study  logic  at  your  sehool, 
my  dear.  It  does  not  follow  that  1  wish  to  be  pickled 
in  brine  because  I  like  a  salt-water  plunge  at  Nahant. 
I  say  thaL,  conceit  is  just  as  natural  a  thing  to  human 


8  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

minds  as  a  centre  is  to  a  circle.  But  little-minded 
people's  thoughts  move  in  such  small  circles  that  five 
minutes'  conversation  gives  you  an  arc  long  enough  to 
determine  their  whole  curve.  An  arc  in  the  movement 
of  a  large  intellect  does  not  sensibly  differ  from  a 
straight  line.  Even  if  it  have  the  third  vowel  as  its 
centre,  it  does  not  soon  betray  it.  The  highest  thought, 
that  is,  is  the  most  seemingly  impersonal ;  it  does  not 
obviously  imply  any  individual  centre. 

Audacious  self-esteem,  with  good  ground  for  it,  is 
always  imposing.  What  resplendent  beauty  that  must 
have  been  which  could  have  authorised  Phryne  to 
"  peel "  in  the  way  she  did.  What  fine  speeches  are 
those  two:  " Non  omnis  moriar,"  and,  "1  have  taken 
all  knowledge  to  be  my  province  !  "  Even  in  common 
people,  conceit  has  the  virtue  of  making  them  cheer- 
ful ;  the  man  who  thinks  his  wife,  his  baby,  his  horse, 
his  dog,  and  himself  severally  unequalled,  is  almost  sure 
to  be  a  good-humoured  person,  though  liable  to  be 
tedious  at  times. 

What  are  the  great  faults  of  conversation  ? 

Want  of  ideas,  want  of  words,  want  »f  manners  are 
the  principal  ones,  I  suppose  you  tlink.  I  don't 
doubt  it,  but  I  will  tell  you  what  I  hive  found  spoil 
more  good  talks  than  anything  else  :  long  arguments 
on  special  points  between  people  who  differ  on  the 
fundamental  principles  upon  which  these  points  de- 
pend. No  men  can  have  satisfactory  relations  with 
each  other  until  they  have  agreed  on  certain  ultimata 
of  belief  not  to  be  disturbed  in  ordinary  conversa- 
tion, and  unless  they  have  sense  enough  to  trace  the 
secondary  questions  depending  upon  these  ultimate 
beliefs  to  their  source.  In  short,  just  as  a  written 
constitution  is  essential  to  the  best  social  order,  so  a 
code  of  finalities  is  a  necessary  condition  of  profitable 
talk  between  two  persons.  Talking  is  like  playing  on 
the  harp :  there  is  as  much  in  laying  the  hard  on  the 
strings  to  stop  their  vibrations  as  in  twanging  them  to 
bring  out  their  music. 

Do  you  mean  to  say  the  pun-question  is  not 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  9 

clearly  settled  in  your  minds  ?  Let  me  lay  down  the 
law  upon  the  subject.  Life  and  language  are  alike 
sacred.  Homicide  and  verbicide — that  is,  violent  treat- 
ment of  a  word  with  fatal  results  to  its  legitimate 
meaning,  which  is  its  life—  are  alike  forhidden.  Man- 
slaughter, which  is  the  meaning  of  the  one,  is  the 
same  as  man's  laughter,  which  is  the  end  of  the 
other.  A  pun  is  primd  facie  an  insult  to  the  person 
you  are  talking  with.  It  implies  utter  indifference  to, 
or  sublime  contempt  for  his  remarks,  no  matter  how 
serious.  I  speak  of  total  depravity,  and  one  says  all 
that  is  written  on  the  subject  is  deep  raving.  1  have 
committed  my  self-respect  by  talking  with  such  a 
person.  I  should  like  to  commit  him,  but  cannot, 
because  he  is  a  nuisance.  Or  I  speak  of  geological 
convulsions^  and  he  asks  me  what  was  the  cosine  of 
Noah's  ark  ;  also,  whether  the  Deluge  was  not  a  deal 
huger  than  any  modern  inundation. 

A  pun  does  not  commonly  justify  a  blow  in  return. 
But  if  a  blow  were  given  for  such  cause,  and  death 
ensued,  the  jury  would  be  judges  both  of  the  facts 
and  the  pun,  and  might,  if  the  latter  were  of  an 
aggravated  character,  return  a  verdict  of  justifiable 
homicide.  Thus,  in  a  case  lately  decided  before 
Miller,  J.,  Doe  presented  Roe  a  subscription  paper, 
and  urged  the  claims  of  suffering  humanity.  Roe 
replied  by  asking,  When  charity  was  like  a  top?  It 
was  in  evidence  that  Doe  preserved  a  dignified  silence. 
Roe  then  said,  "  When  it  begins  to  hum."  Doe  then 
— and  not  till  then — struck  Roe,  and  his  head  happen- 
ing to  hit  a  bound  volume  of  the  Monthly  Rag-bag 
and  Stolen  Miscellany,  intense  mortification  ensued, 
with  a  fatal  result.  The  chief  laid  down  his  notions 
of  the  law  to  his  brother  justices,  who  unanimously 
replied,  "  Jest  so."  The  chief  rejoined,  that  no  man 
should  jest  so  without  being  punished  for  it;  and 
charged  for  the  prisoner,  who  was  acquitted,  and 
the  pun  ordered  to  be  burned  by  the  sheriff.  The 
bound  volume  was  forfeited  as  a  deodand,  but  not 
claimed. 


10  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

People  who  make  puns  are  like  wanton  boys  that 
put  coppers  on  the  railroad  tracks.  They  amuse  them- 
selves and  other  children,  but  their  little  trick  may 
upset  a  freight  train  of  conversation  for  the  sake  of  a 
battered  witticism. 

I  will  thank  you,  B.F.,  to  bring  down  two  books 
of  which  I  will  mark  the  places  on  this  slip  of  paper. 
(While  he  is  gone,  I  may  say  that  this  boy,  our  land- 
lady's youngest,  is  called  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN,  after 
the  celebrated  philosopher  of  that  name.  A  highly 
merited  compliment.) 

I  wish  to  refer  to  two  eminent  authorities.  Now 
be  so  good  as  to  listen.  The  great  moralist  says: 
"  To  trifle  with  the  vocabulary  which  is  the  vehicle  of 
social  intercourse  is  to  tamper  with  the  currency  of 
human  intelligence.  He  who  would  violate  the 
sanctities  of  his  mother  tongue  would  invade  the  re- 
cesses of  the  paternal  till  without  remorse,  and  repeat 
the  banquet  of  Saturn  without  an  indigestion." 

And,  once  more,  listen  to  the  historian.  "The 
Puritans  hated  puns.  The  Bishops  were  notoriously 
addicted  to  them.  The  Lords  Temporal  carried 
them  to  the  verge  of  license.  Majesty  itself  must 
have  its  Royal  quibble.  '  Ye  be  burly,  my  Lord  of 
Burleigh/  said  Queen  Elizabeth,  '  but  ye  shall  make 
less  stir  in  our  realm  than  my  Lord  of  Leicester.' 
The  gravest  wisdom  and  the  highest  breeding  lent 
their  sanction  to  the  practice.  Lord  Bacon  playfully 
declared  himself  a  descendant  of  'Og,  the  King  of 
Bashan.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  with  his  last  breath,  re- 
proached the  soldier  who  brought  him  water,  for 
wasting  a  casque-ful  upon  a  dying  man.  A  courtier, 
who  saw  Othello  performed  at  the  Globe  Theatre,  re- 
marked, that  the  blackamoor  was  a  brute  and  not  a 
man.  '  Thou  hast  reason/  replied  a  great  Lord,  '  ac- 
cording to  Plato  his  saying  ;  for  this  be  a  two-legged 
animal  with  feathers.'  The  fatal  habit  became  universal. 
The  language  was  corrupted.  The  infection  spread 
to  the  national  conscience.  Political  double-dealings 
naturally  grew  out  of  verbal  double  meanings.  The 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  11 

teeth  of  the  new  dragon  were  sown  by  the  Cadmus  who 
introduced  the  alphabet  of  equivocation.  What  was 
levity  in  the  time  of  the  Tudors  grew  to  regicide  and 
revolution  in  the  age  of  the  Stuarts." 

Who  was  that  boarder  that  just  whispered  something 
about  the  Macaulay-flowers  of  literature? — There  was 
a  dead  silence. — I  said  calmly,  I  shall  henceforth  con- 
sider any  interruption  by  a  pun  as  a  hint  to  change 
my  boarding  house.  Do  not  plead  my  example.  If 
/  have  used  any  such,  it  has  been  only  as  a  Spartan 
father  would  show  up  a  drunken  helot.  We  have  done 
with  them. 

If  a  logical  mind  ever  found  out  anything  with 

its  logic? — I  should  say  that  its  most  frequent  work 
was  to  build  a  pons  asinorum  over  chasms  which  shrewd 
people  can  bestride  without  such  a  structure.  You 
can  hire  logic,  in  the  shape  of  a  lawyer,  to  prove 
anything  that  you  want  to  prove.  You  can  buy 
treatises  to  show  that  Napoleon  never  lived,  and 
that  no  battle  of  Bunkerhill  was  ever  fought.  The 
great  minds  are  those  with  a  wide  span,  which  couple 
truths  related  to,  but  far  removed  from,  each  other. 

Logicians  carry  the  surveyor's  chain  over  the  track 
of  which  these  are  the  true  explorers.  I  value  a  man 
mainly  for  his  primary  relations  with  truth,  as  I  under- 
stand truth,  —  not  for  any  secondary  artifice  in 
handling  his  ideas.  Some  of  the  sharpest  men  in 
argument  are  notoriously  unsound  in  judgment.  I 
should  not  trust  the  counsel  of  a  smart  debater,  any 
more  than  that  of  a  good  chess-player.  Either  may 
of  course  advise  wisely,  but  not  necessarily  because 
he  wrangles  or  plays  well. 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  got  his  hand 
up,  as  a  pointer  lifts  his  forefoot,  at  the  expression, 
"  his  relations  with  truth,  as  I  understand  truth,"  and 
when  I  had  done,  sniffed  audibly,  and  said  I  talked 
like  a  trariscendentalist.  For  his  part,  common  sense 
was  good  enough  for  him. 

Precisely  so,  my  dear  sir,  I  replied  ;  common  sense, 
as  you  understand  it.  We  all  have  to  assume  a  standard 


12  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

of  judgment  in  our  own  minds,  either  of  things  or 
persons.  A  man  who  is  willing  to  take  another's 
opinion  has  to  exercise  his  judgment  in  the  choice  of 
whom  to  follow,  which  is  often  as  nice  a  matter  as  to 
judge  of  things  for  one's  self.  On  the  whole,  I  had 
rather  judge  men's  minds  by  comparing  their  thoughts 
with  my  own,  than  judge  of  thoughts  by  knowing  who 
utter  them.  I  must  do  one  or  the  other.  It  does  not 
follow,  of  course,  that  I  may  not  recognise  another 
man's  thoughts  as  broader  and  deeper  than  my  own ; 
but  that  does  not  necessarily  change  my  opinion,  other- 
wise this  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  every  superior  mind 
that  held  a  different  one.  How  many  of  our  most 
cherished  beliefs  are  like  those  drinking-glasses  of  the 
ancient  pattern,  that  serve  us  well  so  long  as  we  keep 
them  in  our  hand,  but  spill  all  if  we  attempt  to  set 
them  down  !  I  have  sometimes  compared  conversation 
to  the  Italian  game  of  mora,  in  which  one  player  lifts 
his  hand  with  so  many  fingers  extended,  and  the  other 
gives  the  number  if  he  can.  I  show  my  thought, 
another  his :  if  they  agree,  well :  if  they  differ,  we 
find  the  largest  common  factor,  if  we  can,  but  at  any 
rate  avoid  disputing  about  remainders  and  fractions, 
which  is  to  real  talk  what  tuning  an  instrument  is  to 
playing  on  it. 

What  if,  instead   of  talking  this   morning,  I 

should  read  you  a  copy  of  verses,  with  critical  remarks 
by  the  author  ?  Any  of  the  company  can  retire  that 
like. 

ALBUM  VERSES 

When  Eve  had  led  her  lord  away, 
And  Cain  had  killed  his  brother, 

The  stars  and  flowers,  the  poets  say. 
Agreed  with  one  another 

To  cheat  the  cunning  tempter's  art, 

And  teach  the  race  its  duty, 
By  keeping  on  its  wicked  heart 

Their  eyes  of  light  and  beauty. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  13 

A  million  sleepless  lids,  they  say, 

Will  be  at  least  a  warning  ; 
And  so  the  flowers  would  watch  by  day, 

The  stars  from  eve  to  morning. 

On  hill  and  prairie,  field  and  lawn, 

Their  dewy  eyes  upturning, 
The  flowers  still  watch  from  reddening  dawn 

Till  western  skies  are  burning. 

Alas  !  each  hour  of  daylight  tells 

A  tale  of  shame  so  crushing, 
That  some  turn'd  white  as  sea-bleached  shells, 

And  some  are  always  blushing. 

But  when  the  patient  stars  look  down 

On  all  their  light  discovers — 
The  traitor's  smile,  the  murderer's  frown, 

The  lips  of  lying  lovers — 

They  try  to  shut  their  saddening  eyes, 

And  in  the  vain  endeavour 
We  see  them  twinkling  in  the  skies, 

And  so  they  wink  for  ever. 

What  do  you  think  of  these  verses,  my  friends? — 
Is  that  piece  an  impromptu  ?  said  my  landlady's 
daughter.  (JEt.  19+.  Tender-eyed  blonde.  Long 
ringlets.  Cameo  pin.  Gold  pencil-case  on  a  chain. 
Locket.  Bracelet.  Album.  Autograph  book.  Ac- 
cordeon.  Reads  Byron,  Tupper,  and  Sylvanus  Cobb, 
junior,  while  her  mother  makes  the  puddings.  Says, 
"  Yes?"  when  you  tell  her  anything.) — Oui  et  non,  ma 
petite, — Yes  and  no,  my  child.  Five  of  the  seven  verses 
were  written  off-hand  ;  the  other  two  took  a  week, — 
that  is,  were  hanging  round  the  desk  in  a  ragged, 
forlorn,  unrhymed  condition  as  long  as  that.  All 
poets  will  tell  you  just  such  stories.  (Test  le  DERNIER 
pas  qui  coute.  Don't  you  know  how  hard  it  is  for  some 
people  to  get  out  of  a  room  after  their  visit  is  really 


14  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

over?  They  want  to  be  off,  and  you  want  to  have 
them  off,  but  they  don't  know  how  to  manage  it. 
One  would  think  they  had  been  built  in  your  parlour 
or  study,  and  were  waiting  to  be  launched.  I  have 
contrived  a  sort  of  ceremonial  inclined  plane  for  such 
visitors,  which  being  lubricated  with  certain  smooth 
phrases,  I  back  them  down,  metaphorically  speaking, 
stern-foremost,  into  their  "  native  element,"  the  great 
ocean  of  out-doors.  Well,  now,  there  are  poems  as 
hard  to  get  rid  of  as  these  rural  visitors.  They  came 
in  glibly,  use  up  all  the  serviceable  rhymes,  day,  ray, 
beauty,  duty,  skies,  eyes,  other,  brother,  mountain, 
fountain,  and  the  like  ;  and  so  they  go  on  until  you  think 
it  is  time  for  the  wind-up,  and  the  wind-up  won't  come 
on  any  terms.  So  they  lie  about  until  you  get  sick  of 
the  sight  of  them,  and  end  by  thrusting  some  cold 
scrap  of  a  final  couplet  upon  them  and  turning  them 
out  of  doors.  I  suspect  a  good  many  "impromptus" 
could  tell  just  such  a  story  as  the  above. — Here  turning 
to  our  landlady,  1  used  an  illustration  which  pleased  the 
company  much  at  the  time,  and  has  since  been  highly 
commended.  "  Madam,"  I  said,  "  you  can  pour  three 
gills  and  three-quarters  of  honey  from  that  pint  jug, 
if  it  is  full,  in  less  than  one  minute  ;  but,  madam,  you 
could  not  empty  that  last  quarter  of  a  gill,  though  you 
were  turned  into  a  marble  Hebe,  and  held  the  vessel 
upside  down  for  a  thousand  years. 

One  gets  tired  to  death  of  the  old,  old  rhymes,  such 
as  you  see  in  that  copy  of  verses, — which  I  don't  mean 
to  abuse,  or  to  praise  either.  I  always  feel  as  if  I  were 
a  cobbler,  putting  new  top-leathers  to  an  old  pair  of 
boot-soles  and  bodies,  when  I  am  fitting  sentiments  to 
these  venerable  jingles. 

youth 

.....  morning 
truth 

warning. 

Nine-tenths  of  the  "  Juvenile  Poems  "  written  spring 
out  of  the  above  musical  and  suggestive  coincidences. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  15 

"  Yes?"  said  our  landlady's  daughter. 

I  did  not  address  the  following  remark  to  her,  and 
I  trust,  from  her  limited  range  of  reading,  she  will 
never  see  it ;  I  said  it  softly  to  my  next  neighbour. 

When  a  young  female  wears  a  flat  circular  side-curl, 
gummed  on  each  temple, — when  she  walks  with  a  male 
not  arm  in  arm,  but  his  arm  against  the  back  of  hers, 
— and  when  she  says,  "  Yes  ? "  with  the  note  of 
interrogation,  you  are  generally  safe  in  asking  her 
what  wages  she  gets,  and  who  the  "  feller "  was  you 
saw  her  with. 

"  What  are  you  whispering?"  said  the  daughter  of 
the  house,  moistening  her  lips  as  she  spoke,  in  a  very 
engaging  manner. 

"I  was  only  laying  down  a  principle  of  social 
diagnosis." 

"Yes?" 

It  is  curious  to  see  how  the  same  wants  and 

tastes  find  the  same  implements  and  modes  of  expres- 
sion in  all  times  and   places.     The  young  ladies   of 
Otaheite,  as  you  may  see  in  "  Cook's  Voyages,"  had  a 
sort  of  crinoline  arrangement  fully  equal  in  radius  to 
the  largest  spread  of  our  own  lady-baskets.     When  I 
fling  a  Bay-State  shawl  over  my  shoulders,  I  am  only 
taking  a  lesson  from  the  climate  that  the  Indian  had 
learned  before  me.       A  blanket-shawl  we  call  it,  and 
not  a  plaid  ;  and  we  wear  it  like  the  aborigines,  and 
not  like  the  Highlanders. 

We  are  the  Romans  of  the  modern  world, — 

the  great  assimilating  people.     Conflicts  and  conquests 
are  of  course  necessary  accidents  with  us,  as  with  our 
prototypes.     And  so  we  come  to  their  style  of  weapon. 
Our   army   sword   is  the  short,  stiff,   pointed  gladius 
of  the   Romans ;    and    the   American   bowie-knife    is 
the   same   tool,    modified   to    meet  the    daily    wants 
of  civil  society.      I  announce  at  this  table  an  axiom 
not  to  be   found  in  Montesquieu  or  the  journals  of 
Congress  : — 

The  race  that  shortens  its  weapons  lengthens  its 
boundaries. 


16  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

Corollary.  It  was  the  Polish  lance  that  left  Poland 
at  last  with  nothing  of  her  own  to  bound. 

"Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear!" 

What  business  had  Sarmatia  to  be  fighting  for 
liberty  with  a  fifteen-foot  pole  between  her  and  the 
breasts  of  her  enemies  ?  If  she  had  but  clutched  the 
old  Roman  and  young  American  weapon,  and  come  to 
close  quarters,  there  might  have  been  a  chance  for 
her  ;  but  it  would  have  spoiled  the  best  passage  in  the 
"  Pleasures  of  Hope." 

Self-made  men  ? — Well,  yes.  Of  course  every- 
body likes  and  respects  self-made  men.  It  is  a  great 
deal  better  to  be  made  in  that  way  than  not  to  be 
made  at  all.  Are  any  of  you  younger  people  old 
enough  to  remember  that  Irishman's  house  on  the 
marsh  at  Cambridgeport,  which  house  he  built  from 
drain  to  chimney-top  with  his  own  hands?  It  took 
him  a  great  many  years  to  build  it,  and  one  could 
see  that  it  was  a  little  out  of  plumb,  and  a  little  wavy 
in  outline,  and  a  little  queer  and  uncertain  in  general 
aspect.  A  regular  hand  could  certainly  have  built  a 
better  house  ;  but  it  was  a  very  good  house  for  a 
"  self-made  "  carpenter's  house,  and  people  praised  it, 
and  said  how  remarkably  well  the  Irishman  had 
succeeded.  They  never  thought  of  praising  the  fine 
blocks  of  houses  a  little  farther  on. 

Your  self-made  man,  whittled  into  shape  with  his 
own  jack-knife,  deserves  more  credit,  if  that  is  all, 
than  the  regular  engine-turned  article,  shaped  by  the 
most  approved  pattern,  and  French  polished  by  society 
and  travel.  But  as  to  saying  that  one  is  every  way  the 
equal  of  the  other,  that  is  another  matter.  The  right 
of  strict  social  discrimination  of  all  things  and  persons, 
according  to  their  merits,  native  or  acquired,  is  one  of 
the  most  precious  republican  privileges.  I  take  the 
liberty  to  exercise  it,  when  I  say,  that  other  things 
being  equal,  in  most  relations  of  life  I  prefer-  a  man  of 
family. 

What  do  I  mean  by  a  man  of  family  ? — Oh,  I'll  give 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  17 

you  a  general  idea  of  what  I  mean.  Let  us  give  him  a 
first-rate  fit  out ;  it  costs  us  nothing. 

Four  or  five  generations  of  gentlemen  and  gentle- 
women ;  among  them  a  member  of  his  Majesty's 
Council  for  the  Province,  a  Governor  or  so,  one  or 
two  Doctors  of  Divinity,  a  member  of  Congress,  not 
later  than  the  time  of  top-boots  with  tassels. 

Family  portraits.  The  member  of  the  Council,  by 
Smibert.  The  great  merchant-uncle,  by  Copley,  fufl 
length,  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  in  a  velvet  cap  and 
flowered  robe,  with  a  globe  by  him,  to  show  the  range 
of  his  commercial  transactions,  and  letters  with  large 
red  seals  lying  round,  one  directed  conspicuously  to 
The  Honourable,  etc.,  etc.  Great-grandmother,  by 
the  same  artist ;  brown  satin,  lace,  very  fine,  hands 
superlative ;  grand  old  lady,  stiffish  but  imposing. 
Her  mother,  artist  unknown  ;  flat,  angular,  hanging 
sleeves  ;  parrot  on  fist.  A  pair  of  Stuarts,  viz.  :  1. 
A  superb  full-blown,  mediaeval  gentleman,  with  a  fiery 
dash  of  Tory  blood  in  his  veins,  tempered  down  with 
that  of  a  fine  old  rebel  grandmother,  and  warmed  up 
with  the  best  of  old  India  Madeira  ;  his  face  is  one 
flame  of  ruddy  sunshine  ;  his  ruffled  shirt  rushes  out  of 
his  bosom  with  an  impetuous  generosity,  as  if  it  would 
drag  his  heart  after  it ;  and  his  smile  is  good  for 
twenty  thousand  dollars  to  the  Hospital,  besides  ample 
bequests  to  all  relatives  and  dependents.  2.  Lady  of 
the  same  ;  remarkable  cap  ;  high  waist,  as  in  time  of 
Empire  ;  bust  a  la  Josephine  ;  wisps  of  curls,  like 
celery-tips,  at  sides  of  forehead  ;  complexion  clear  and 
warm,  like  rose  cordial.  As  for  the  miniatures  by 
Malbone,  we  don't  count  them  in  the  gallery. 

Books,  too,  with  the  names  of  old  college  students 
in  them, — family  names  ; — you  will  find  them  at  the 
head  of  their  respective  classes  in  the  days  when 
students  took  rank  on  the  catalogue  from  their  parent's 
condition.  Elzevirs,  with  the  Latinized  appellations 
of  youthful  progenitors,  and  Hie  liber  est  meus  on  the 
title-page.  A  set  of  Hogarth's  original  plates.  Pope, 
original  edition,  15  volumes,  London,  1717-  Barrow 


18  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

on  the  lower  shelves,  in  folio.  Tillotsou  on  the  upper, 
in  a  little  dark  platoon  of  octo-decimos. 

Some  family  silver  ;  a  string  of  wedding  and  funeral 
rings  ;  the  arms  of  the  family  curiously  blazoned  ;  the 
same  in  worsted,  by  a  maiden  aunt. 

If  the  man  of  family  has  an  old  place  to  keep  these 
things  in,  furnished  with  claw-footed  chairs  and  black 
mahogany  tables,  and  tall  bevel-edged  mirrors,  and 
stately  upright  cabinets,  his  outfit  is  complete. 

No,  my  friends,  I  go  (always,  other  things  being 
equal)  for  the  man  who  inherits  family  traditions  and 
the  cumulative  humanities  of  at  least  four  or  five 
generations.  Above  all  things,  as  a  child,  he  should 
have  tumbled  about  in  the  library.  All  men  are  afraid 
of  books,  who  have  not  handled  them  from  infancy. 
Do  you  suppose  our  dear  didascalos  over  there  ever 
read  Poli  Synopsis,  or  consulted  Castelli  Lexicon,  while 
he  was  growing  up  to  their  stature  ?  Not  he ;  but 
virtue  passed  through  the  hem  of  their  parchment  and 
leather  garments  whenever  he  touched  them,  as  the 
precious  drugs  sweated  through  the  bat's  handle  in  the 
Arabian  story.  I  tell  you  he  is  at  home  wherever  he 
smells  the  invigorating  fragrance  of  Russia  leather. 
No  self-made  man  feels  so.  One  may,  it  is  true,  have 
all  the  antecedents  I  have  spoken  of,  and  yet  be  a  poor 
or  a  shabby  fellow.  One  may  have  none  of  them,  and 
yet  be  fit  for  councils  and  courts.  Then  let  them 
change  places.  Our  social  arrangement  has  this  great 
beauty,  that  its  strata  shift  up  and  down  as  they 
change  specific  gravity,  without  being  clogged  by 
layers  of  prescription.  But  1  still  insist  on  my  demo- 
cratic liberty  of  choice,  and  I  go  for  the  man  with  the 
gallery  of  family  portraits  against  the  one  with  the 
twenty-five  cent  daguerreotype,  unless  I  find  out  that 
the  last  is  the  better  of  the  two. 

I  should  have  felt  more  nervous  about  the 

late  comet  if  I  had  thought  the  world  was  ripe.  But 
it  is  very  green  yet,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  ;  and, 
besides,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  coal  to  use  up,  which  1 
cannot  bring  myself  to  think  was  made  for  nothing. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  19 

If  certain  things  which  seem  to  me  essential  to  a  mil- 
lennium had  come  to  pass,  I  should  have  been  frightened ; 
but  they  haven't.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  my 


LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS 

When  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locks, 
When  berries,  whortle-,  rasp-,  and  straw-, 

Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box, — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right, — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light, — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean, — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean, — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take, — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience'  sake, — 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 

Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof, — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair, — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 

The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 
And  claret-bottles  harbour  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist, — 


20  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before, — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Rolls  through  the  Hoosac  tunnel's  bore  ; — 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 

And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe  ; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe  ! 

The  company  seemed  to  like  the  verses,  and  I 
promised  them  to  read  others  occasionally,  if  they  had 
a  mind  to  hear  them.  Of  course  they  would  not  expect 
it  every  morning.  Neither  must  the  reader  suppose 
that  all  these  things  I  have  reported  were  said  at  any 
one  breakfast-time.  I  have  not  taken  the  trouble  to 
date  them,  as  Raspail,  pere,  used  to  date  every  proof 
he  sent  to  the  printer :  but  they  were  scattered  over 
several  breakfasts  ;  and  I  have  said  a  good  many  more 
things  since,  which  I  shall  very  possibly  print  some- 
time or  other,  if  I  am  urged  to  do  it  by  judicious 
friends. 

I  finish  off  with  reading  some  verses  of  my  friend 
the  Professor,  of  whom  you  may  perhaps  hear  more 
by-and-by.  The  Professor  read  them,  he  told  me,  at 
a  farewell  meeting,  where,  the  youngest  of  our  great 
Historians  met  a  few  of  his  many  friends  at  their 
invitation. 

Yes,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him, — though  friendship 

may  claim 

To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  laurels  of  fame  ; 
Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him  our  own, 
'Tis  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle  has  blown. 

As  the  rider  that  rests  with  the  spur  on  his  heel, — 
As   the    guardsman   that    sleeps    in    his    corselet    of 

steel — 

As  the  archer  that  stands  with  his  shaft  on  the  string, 
He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland  we  bring. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  21 

What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in  his  loom 

Till  their  warriors  shall   breathe  and   their   beauties 

shall  bloom , 

While  tapestry  lengthens  the  life-glowing  dyes 
That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain  of  their  skies  ! 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels  of  time, 
Where  flit  the  guant  spectres  of  passion  and  crime, 
There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are  martyrs  unsung, 
There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with  his  tongue  ! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time  has  bequeathed 
From   lips  that    are  warm   with    the    freedom    they 

breathed  ! 

Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us  their  doom, 
Though  he  sweep  the  black  past  like  Van  Tromp  with 

his  broom  ! 


The  dream  flashes  by  for  the  west-winds  awake 
On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o'er  mountain  and  lake, 
To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a  sea-girdled  shrine, 
With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose  and  the  pine. 

So  fill  a  bright  cup  with  the  sunlight  that  gushed 
When  the  dead  summer's  jewels  were  trampled  and 

crushed : 
THE  TRUE  KNIGHT  OF  LEARNING, — the  world  holds  him 

dear, — 
Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God  speed  his  career  ! 


II 

I  REALLY  believe  some  people  save  their  bright 
thoughts,  as  being  too  precious  for  conversation. 
What  do  you  think  an  admiring  friend  said  the  other 
day  to  one  that  was  talking  good  things, — good 
enough  to  print?  "  Why,"  said  he,  "you  are  wasting 
merchantable  literature,  a  cash  article,  at  the  rate,  as 
nearly  as  1  can  tell,  of  fifty  dollars  an  hour."  The 
talker  took  him  to  the  window  and  asked  him  to  look 
out  and  tell  him  what  he  saw. 

"Nothing  but  a  very  dusty  street,"  he  said,  "and  a 
man  driving  a  sprinkling-machine  through  it. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  the  man  he  is  wasting  that 
water  ?  What  would  be  the  state  of  the  highways  of 
life,  if  we  did  not  drive  our  thought-sprinklers  through 
them  with  the  valves  open,  sometimes  ? 

"  Besides,  there  is  another  thing  about  this  talking, 
which  you  forget.  It  shapes  our  thoughts  for  us  ;  the 
waves  of  conversation  roll  them  as  the  surf  rolls  the 
pebbles  on  the  shore.  Let  me  modify  the  image  a 
little.  I  rough  out  my  thoughts  in  talk  as  an  artist 
models  in  clay.  Spoken  language  is  so  plastic, — you 
can  pat  and  coax,  and  spread  and  shave,  and  rub  out, 
and  fill  up,  and  stick  on  so  easily,  when  you  work 
that  soft  material,  that  there  is  nothing  like  it  for 
modelling.  Out  of  it  come  the  shapes  which  you 
turn  into  marble  or  bronze  in  your  immortal  books, 
if  you  happen  to  write  such.  Or,  to  use  another 
illustration,  writing  or  printing  is  like  shooting  with  a 
rifle ;  you  may  hit  your  reader's  mind,  or  miss  it ; 
but  talking  is  like  playing  at  a  mark  with  the  pipe  of 
an  engine  :  if  it  is  within  reach,  and  you  have  time 
enough,  you  can't  help  hitting  it." 
22 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  23 

The  company  agreed  that  this  last  illustration  was 
of  superior  excellence,  or,  in  the  phrase  used  by 
them,  "  Fust-rate."  I  acknowledged  the  compliment, 
but  gently  rebuked  the  expression.  "  Fust-rate/' 
"  prime,"  "  a  prime  article,"  "  a  superior  piece  of 
goods,"  ' '  a  handsome  garment,"  "  a  gent  in  a  flowered 
vest," — all  such  expressions  are  final.  They  blast 
the  lineage  of  him  or  her  who  utters  them  for  genera- 
tions up  and  down.  There  is  one  other  phrase  which 
will  soon  come  to  be  decisive  of  a  man's  social  status, 
if  it  is  not  already  :  "  That  tells  the  whole  story."  It 
is  an  expression  which  vulgar  and  conceited  people 
particularly  affect,  and  which  well-meaning  ones,  who 
know  better,  catch  from  them.  It  is  intended  to 
stop  all  debate,  like  the  previous  question  in  the 
General  Court.  Only  it  doesn't ;  simply  because 
"  that "  does  not  usually  tell  the  whole,  nor  one-half 
the  whole  story. 

It  is  an  odd  idea,  that  almost  all  our  people 

have  had  a  professional  education.  To  become  a 
doctor  a  man  must  study  some  three  years  and  hear 
a  thousand  lectures,  more  or  less.  Just  how  much 
study  it  takes  to  make  a  lawyer  I  cannot  say,  but 
probably  not  more  than  this.  Now  most  decent 
people  hear  one  hundred  lectures  or  sermons  (dis- 
courses) on  theology  every  year, — and  this,  twenty, 
thirty,  fifty  years  together.  They  read  a  great  many 
religious  books  besides.  The  clergy,  however,  rarely 
hear  any  sermons  except  what  they  preach  themselves. 
A  dull  preacher  might  be  conceived,  therefore,  to 
lapse  into  a  state  of  quasi  heathenism,  simply  for 
want  of  religious  instruction.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  an  attentive  and  intelligent  hearer,  listening  to 
a  succession  of  wise  teachers,  might  become  actually 
better  educated  in  theology  than  any  one  of  them 
We  are  all  theological  students,  and  more  of  us 
qualified  as  doctors  of  divinity  than  have  received 
degrees  at  any  of  the  universities. 

It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  very  good  people 
should  often  find  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  keep 


24  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

their  attention  fixed  upon  a  sermon  treating  feebly  a 
subject  which  they  have  thought  vigorously  about  for 
years,  and  heard  able  men  discuss  scores  of  times.  I 
have  often  noticed,  however,  that  a  hopelessly  dull 
discourse  acts  inductively,  as  electricians  would  say,  in 
developing  strong  mental  currents.  I  am  ashamed 
to  think  with  what  accompaniments  and  variations 
and  fioriture  I  have  sometimes  followed  the  droning 
of  a  heavy  speaker, — not  willingly, — for  my  habit  is 
reverential, — but  as  a  necessary  result  of  a  slight 
continuous  impression  on  the  senses  and  the  mind, 
which  kept  both  in  action  without  furnishing  the  food 
they  required  to  work  upon.  If  you  ever  saw  a  crow 
with  a  king- bird  after  him,  you  will  get  an  image  of  a 
dull  speaker  and  a  lively  listener.  The  bird  in  sable 
plumage  flaps  heavily  along  his  straightforward  course, 
while  the  other  sails  round  him,  over  him,  under  him, 
leaves  him,  comes  back  again,  tweaks  out  a  black 
feather,  shoots  away  once  more,  never  losing  sight  of 
him,  and  finally  reaches  the  crow's  perch  at  the  same 
time  the  crow  does,  having  cut  a  perfect  labyrinth  of 
loops  and  knots  and  spirals,  while  the  slow  fowl  was 
painfully  working  from  one  end  of  his  straight  line  to 
the  other. 

[I  think  these  remarks  were  received  rather  coolly. 
A  temporary  boarder  from  the  country,  consisting  of 
a  somewhat  more  than  middle-aged  female,  with  a 
parchment  forehead  and  a  dry  little  "  frisette  "  shing- 
ling it,  a  sallow  neck  with  a  necklace  of  gold  beads,  a 
black  dress  too  rusty  for  recent  grief,  and  contours  in 
basso-relievo,  left  the  table  prematurely,  and  was  re- 
ported to  have  been  very  virulent  about  what  I  said. 
So  I  went  to  my  good  old  minister,  and  repeated  the 
remarks,  as  nearly  as  I  could  remember  them,  to  him. 
He  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  said  their  was  con- 
siderable truth  in  them.  He  thought  he  could  tell 
when  people's  minds  were  wandering,  by  their  looks. 
In  the  earlier  years  of  his  ministry  he  had  sometimes 
noticed  this,  when  he  was  preaching ; — very  little  of 
late  years.  Sometimes,  when  his  colleague  was 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  26 

preaching  he  observed  this  kind  of  inattention  ;  but, 
after  all,  it  was  not  so  very  unnatural.  I  will  say,  by 
the  way,  that  it  is  a  rule  I  have  long  followed,  to  tell 
my  worst  thoughts  to  my  minister,  and  my  best 
thoughts  to  the  young  people  I  talk  with.] 

I  want  to  make  a  literary  confession  now, 

which  I  believe  nobody  has  made  before  me.  You 
know  very  well  that  I  write  verses  sometimes,  because 
I  have  read  some  of  them  at  this  table.  (The  company 
assented, — two  or  three  of  them  in  a  resigned  sort  of 
way,  as  I  thought,  as  if  they  supposed  I  had  an  epic 
in  my  pocket,  and  was  going  to  read  half  a  dozen 
books  or  so  for  their  benefit.)  I  continued.  Of  course 
I  write  some  lines  or  passages  which  are  better  than 
others  ;  some  which,  compared  with  the  others,  might 
be  called  relatively  excellent.  It  is  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  I  should  consider  these  relatively  excellent 
lines  or  passages  as  absolutely  good.  So  much  must 
be  pardoned  to  humanity.  Now  I  never  wrote  a 
"  good  "  line  in  my  life,  but  the  moment  after  it  was 
written  it  seemed  a  hundred  years  old.  Very  com- 
monly I  had  a  sudden  conviction  that  I  had  seen  it 
somewhere.  Possibly  I  may  have  sometimes  uncon- 
sciously stolen  it,  but  I  do  not  remember  that  I  ever 
once  detected  any  historical  truth  in  these  sudden 
convictions  of  the  antiquity  of  my  new  thought  or 
phrase.  I  have  learned  utterly  to  distrust  them,  and 
never  allow  them  to  bully  me  out  of  a  thought  or 
line. 

This  is  the  philosophy  of  it.  (Here  the  number  of 
the  company  was  diminished  by  a  small  secession.) 
Any  new  formula  which  suddenly  emerges  in  our 
consciousness  has  its  roots  in  long  trains  of  thought ; 
it  is  virtually  old  when  it  first  makes  its  appearance 
among  the  recognised  growths  of  our  intellect.  Any 
crystalline  group  of  musical  words  has  had  a  long  and 
still  period  to  form  in.  Here  is  one  theory. 

But  there  is  a  larger  law  which  perhaps  compre- 
hends these  facts.  It  is  this  :  the  rapidity  with  which 
ideas  grow  old  in  our  memories  is  in  a  direct  ratio  to 


26  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

the  squares  of  their  importance.  Their  apparent  age 
runs  up  miraculously,  like  the  value  of  diamonds,  as 
they  increase  in  magnitude.  A  great  calamity,  for 
instance,  is  as  old  as  the  trilobites  an  hour  after  it  has 
happened.  It  stains  backward  through  all  the  leaves 
we  have  turned  over  in  the  book  of  life,  before  its 
blot  of  tears  or  of  blood  is  dry  on  the  page  we  are 
turning.  For  this  we  seem  to  have  lived  ;  it  was  fore- 
shadowed in  dreams  that  we  leaped  out  of  in  the  cold 
sweat  of  terror  ;  in  the  "  dissolving  views  "  of  dark  day- 
visions  ;  all  omens  pointed  to  it ;  all  paths  led  to  it. 
After  the  tossing  half-forgetfulness  of  the  first  sleep 
that  follows  such  an  event,  it  comes  upon  us  afresh, 
as  a  surprise,  at  waking ;  in  a  few  moments  it  is  old 
again, — old  as  eternity. 

[I  wish  I  had  not  said  all  this  then  and  there.  I 
might  have  known  better.  The  pale  schoolmistress, 
in  her  morning  dress,  was  looking  at  me,  as  I  noticed, 
with  a  wild  sort  of  expression.  All  at  once  the  blood 
dropped  out  of  her  cheeks  as  the  mercury  drops  from 
a  broken  barometer-tube,  and  she  melted  away  from 
her  seat  like  an  image  of  snow  ;  a  slung-shot  could  not 
have  brought  her  down  better.  God  forgive  me  ! 

After  this  little  episode,  I  continued,  to  some  few 
that  remained  balancing  teaspoons  on  the  edges  of 
cups,  twirling  knives,  or  tilting  upon  the  hind  legs 
of  their  chairs  until  their  heads  reached  the  wall, 
where  they  left  gratuitous  advertisements  of  various 
popular  cosmetics.] 

When  a  person  is  suddenly  thrust  into  any  strange, 
new  position  of  trial,  he  finds  the  place  fits  him  as  if 
he  had  been  measured  for  it.  He  has  committed  a 
great  crime,  for  instance,  and  is  sent  to  the  State 
Prison.  The  traditions,  prescriptions,  limitations, 
privileges,  all  the  sharp  conditions  of  his  new  life, 
stamp  themselves  upon  his  consciousness  as  the  signet 
on  soft  wax  ; — a  single  pressure  is  enough.  Let  me 
strengthen  the  image  a  little.  Did  you  ever  happen 
to  see  that  most  soft-spoken  and  velvet-handed  steam- 
engine  at  the  Mint?  The  smooth  piston  slides  back- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  27 

ward  and  forward  as  a  lady  might  slip  her  delicate 
finger  in  and  out  of  a  ring.  The  engine  lays  one  of 
its  fingers  calmly,  but  firmly,  upon  a  bit  of  metal ;  it 
is  a  coin  now,  and  will  remember  that  touch,  and  tell 
a  new  race  about  it,  when  the  date  upon  it  is  crusted 
over  with  twenty  centuries.  So  it  is  that  a  great 
silent-moving  misery  puts  a  new  stamp  on  us  in  an 
hour  or  a  moment, — as  sharp  an  impression  as  if  it 
had  taken  half  a  lifetime  to  engrave  it. 

It  is  awful  to  be  in  the  hands  of  the  wholesale  pro- 
fessional dealers  in  misfortune  ;  undertakers  and  jailers 
magnetize  you  in  a  moment,  and  you  pass  out  of  the 
individual  life  you  were  living,  into  the  rhythmical 
movements  of  their  horrible  machinery.  Do  the  worst 
thing  you  can,  or  suffer  the  worst  that  can  be  thought 
of,  you  find  yourself  in  a  category  of  humanity  that 
stretches  back  as  far  as  Cain,  and  with  an  expert  at 
your  elbow  who  has  studied  your  case  all  out  before- 
hand, and  is  waiting  for  you  with  his  implements  of 
hemp  or  mahogany.  I  believe,  if  a  man  were  to  be 
burned  in  any  of  our  cities  to-morrow  for  heresy,  there 
would  be  found  a  master  of  ceremonies  that  knew  just 
how  many  fagots  were  necessary,  and  the  best  way  of 
arranging  the  whole  matter. 

So  we  have  not  won  the  Goodwood  cup ;  au 

contraire,  we  were  a  "  bad  fifth/5  if  not  worse  than  that ; 
and  trying  it  again,  and  the  third  time,  has  not  yet 
bettered  the  matter.  Now  I  am  as  patriotic  as  any  of 
my  fellow-citizens, — too  patriotic,  in  fact,  for  I  have 
got  into  hot  water  by  loving  too  much  of  my  country  ; 
in  short,  if  any  man,  whose  fighting  weight  is  not 
more  than  eight  stone  four  pounds,  disputes  it,  I  am 
ready  to  discuss  the  point  with  him.  I  should  have 
gloried  to  see  the  stars  and  stripes  in  front  at  the  finish. 
I  love  my  country,  and  I  love  horses.  Stubbs's  old 
mezzotint  of  Eclipse  hangs  over  my  desk,  and  Herring's 
portrait  of  Plenipotentiary — whom  I  saw  run  at  Epsom 
— over  my  fireplace.  Did  I  not  elope  from  school  to 
see  Revenge,  and  Prospect,  and  Little  John,  and 
Peacemaker  run  over  the  race-course  where  now  yon 


28  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

suburban  village  flourishes,  in  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  ever  so-few?  Though  I  never  owned  a 
horse,  have  I  not  been  the  proprietor  of  six  equine 
females,  of  which  one  was  the  prettiest  little  "  Morgin  " 
that  ever  stepped?  Listen,  then,  to  an  opinion  I  have 
often  expressed  long  before  this  venture  of  ours  in 
England.  Horse-racing  is  not  a  republican  institution  ; 
horse-trotting  is.  Only  very  rich  persons  can  keep 
race-horses,  and  everybody  knows  they  are  kept  mainly 
as  gambling  implements.  All  that  matter  about  blood 
and  speed  we  won't  discuss  ;  we  understand  all  that ; 
useful,  very — of  course, — great  obligations  to  the 
Godolphin  "  Arabian,"  and  the  rest.  I  say  racing- 
horses  are  essentially  gambling  implements,  as  much 
as  roulette  tables.  Now  I  am  not  preaching  at  this 
moment ;  I  may  read  you  one  of  my  sermons  some 
other  morning  ;  but  I  maintain  that  gambling,  on  the 
great  scale,  is  not  republican.  It  belongs  to  two 
phases  of  society — a  cankered  over-civilization,  such 
as  exists  in  rich  aristocracies,  and  the  reckless  life  of 
borderers  and  adventurers,  or  the  semi-barbarism  of  a 
civilization  resolved  into  its  primitive  elements.  Real 
republicanism  is  stern  and  severe ;  its  essence  is  not 
in  forms  of  government,  but  in  the  omnipotence  of 
public  opinion  which  grows  out  of  it.  This  public 
opinion  cannot  prevent  gambling  with  dice  or  stocks, 
but  it  can  and  does  compel  it  to  keep  comparatively 
quiet.  But  horse-racing  is  the  most  public  way  of 
gambling,  and  with  all  its  immense  attractions  to  the 
sense  and  the  feelings — to  which  I  plead  very  susceptible 
— the  disguise  is  too  thin  that  covers  it,  and  everybody 
knows  what  it  means.  Its  supporters  are  the  southern 
gentry — fine  fellows,  no  doubt,  but  not  republicans 
exactly,  as  we  understand  the  term — a  few  Northern 
millionaires  more  or  less  thoroughly  millioned,  who  do 
not  represent  the  real  people,  and  the  mob  of  sporting 
men,  the  best  of  whom  are  commonly  idlers,  and  the 
worst  very  bad  neighbours  to  have  near  one  in  a 
crowd,  or  to  meet  in  a  dark  alley.  In  England,  on  the 
other  hand,  with  its  aristocratic  institutions,  racing 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  29 

is  a  natural  growth  enough  ;  the  passion  for  it  spreads 
downwards  through  all  classes,  from  the  Queen  to  the 
costermonger.  London  is  like  a  shell  corn-cob  on  the 
Derby-day,  and  there  is  not  a  clerk  who  could  raise 
the  money  to  hire  a  saddle  with  an  old  hack  under  it 
that  can  sit  down  on  his  office-stool  the  next  day  with- 
out wincing. 

Now  just  compare  the  racer  with  the  trotter  for  a 
moment.  The  racer  is  incidentally  useful,  but  essen- 
tially something  to  bet  upon,  as  much  as  the  thimble- 
rigger's  "  little  joker."  The  trotter  is  essentially  and 
daily  useful,  and  only  incidentally  a  tool  for  sporting 
men. 

What  better  reason  do  you  want  for  the  fact  that 
the  racer  is  most  cultivated  and  reaches  his  greatest 
perfection  in  England,  and  that  the  trotting-horses  of 
America  beat  the  world?  And  why  should  we  have 
expected  that  the  pick — if  it  was  the  pick — of  our  few 
and  far  between  racing  stables  should  beat  the  pick  of 
England  and  France  ?  Throw  over  the  fallacious 
time-test,  and  there  was  nothing  to  show  for  it  but  a 
natural  kind  of  patriotic  feeling,  which  we  all  have, 
with  a  thoroughly  provincial  conceit,  which  some  of  us 
must  plead  guilty  to. 

We  may  beat  yet.  As  an  American,  I  hope  we 
shall.  As  a  moralist  and  occasional  sermonizer,  I  am 
not  so  anxious  about  it.  Wherever  the  trotting-horse 
goes,  he  carries  in  his  train  brisk  omnibuses,  lively 
bakers'  carts,  and  therefore  hot  rolls,  the  jolly  butcher's 
waggon,  the  cheerful  gig,  the  wholesome  afternoon 
drive  with  wife  and  child — all  the  forms  of  moral 
excellence,  except  truth,  which  does  not  agree  with 
any  kind  of  horse-flesh.  The  racer  brings  with  him 
gambling,  cursing,  swearing,  drinking,  the  eating  of 
oysters,  and  a  distaste  for  mobcaps  and  the  middle-aged 
virtues. 

And  by  the  way,  let  me  beg  you  not  to  call  a 
trotting-match  a  race,  and  not  to  speak  of  a  "  thorough- 
bred "  as  a  "  blooded "  horse,  unless  he  has  been 
recently  phlebotomized.  I  consent  to  your  saying 


28  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

suburban  village  flourishes,  in  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  ever  so-few  ?  Though  I  never  owned  a 
horse,  have  I  not  been  the  proprietor  of  six  equine 
females,  of  which  one  was  the  prettiest  little  "  Morgin  " 
that  ever  stepped?  Listen,  then,  to  an  opinion  I  have 
often  expressed  long  before  this  venture  of  ours  in 
England.  Horse-racing  is  not  a  republican  institution  ; 
horse-trotting  is.  Only  very  rich  persons  can  keep 
race-horses,  and  everybody  knows  they  are  kept  mainly 
as  gambling  implements.  All  that  matter  about  blood 
and  speed  we  won't  discuss ;  we  understand  all  that ; 
useful,  very — of  course, — great  obligations  to  the 
Godolphin  "  Arabian,"  and  the  rest.  I  say  racing- 
horses  are  essentially  gambling  implements,  as  much 
as  roulette  tables.  Now  I  am  not  preaching  at  this 
moment ;  I  may  read  you  one  of  my  sermons  some 
other  morning  ;  but  I  maintain  that  gambling,  on  the 
great  scale,  is  not  republican.  It  belongs  to  two 
phases  of  society — a  cankered  over-civilization,  such 
as  exists  in  rich  aristocracies,  and  the  reckless  life  of 
borderers  and  adventurers,  or  the  semi-barbarism  of  a 
civilization  resolved  into  its  primitive  elements.  Real 
republicanism  is  stern  and  severe ;  its  essence  is  not 
in  forms  of  government,  but  in  the  omnipotence  of 
public  opinion  which  grows  out  of  it.  This  public 
opinion  cannot  prevent  gambling  with  dice  or  stocks, 
but  it  can  and  does  compel  it  to  keep  comparatively 
quiet.  But  horse-racing  is  the  most  public  way  of 
gambling,  and  with  all  its  immense  attractions  to  the 
sense  and  the  feelings — to  which  I  plead  very  susceptible 
— the  disguise  is  too  thin  that  covers  it,  and  everybody 
knows  what  it  means.  Its  supporters  are  the  southern 
gentry — fine  fellows,  no  doubt,  but  not  republicans 
exactly,  as  we  understand  the  term — a  few  Northern 
millionaires  more  or  less  thoroughly  millioned,  who  do 
not  represent  the  real  people,  and  the  mob  of  sporting 
men,  the  best  of  whom  are  commonly  idlers,  and  the 
worst  very  bad  neighbours  to  have  near  one  in  a 
crowd,  or  to  meet  in  a  dark  alley.  In  England,  on  the 
other  hand,  with  its  aristocratic  institutions,  racing 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  29 

is  a  natural  growth  enough  ;  the  passion  for  it  spreads 
downwards  through  all  classes,  from  the  Queen  to  the 
costermonger.  London  is  like  a  shell  corn-cob  on  the 
Derby-day,  and  there  is  not  a  clerk  who  could  raise 
the  money  to  hire  a  saddle  with  an  old  hack  under  it 
that  can  sit  down  on  his  office-stool  the  next  day  with- 
out wincing. 

Now  just  compare  the  racer  with  the  trotter  for  a 
moment.  The  racer  is  incidentally  useful,  but  essen- 
tially something  to  bet  upon,  as  much  as  the  thimble- 
rigger's  "  little  joker."  The  trotter  is  essentially  and 
daily  useful,  and  only  incidentally  a  tool  for  sporting 
men. 

What  better  reason  do  you  want  for  the  fact  that 
the  racer  is  most  cultivated  and  reaches  his  greatest 
perfection  in  England,  and  that  the  trotting-horses  of 
America  beat  the  world?  And  why  should  we  have 
expected  that  the  pick — if  it  was  the  pick — of  our  few 
and  far  between  racing  stables  should  beat  the  pick  of 
England  and  France  ?  Throw  over  the  fallacious 
time-test,  and  there  was  nothing  to  show  for  it  but  a 
natural  kind  of  patriotic  feeling,  which  we  all  have, 
with  a  thoroughly  provincial  conceit,  which  some  of  us 
must  plead  guilty  to. 

We  may  beat  yet.  As  an  American,  I  hope  we 
shall.  As  a  moralist  and  occasional  sermonizer,  I  am 
not  so  anxious  about  it.  Wherever  the  trotting-horse 
goes,  he  carries  in  his  train  brisk  omnibuses,  lively 
bakers'  carts,  and  therefore  hot  rolls,  the  jolly  butcher's 
waggon,  the  cheerful  gig,  the  wholesome  afternoon 
drive  with  wife  and  child — all  the  forms  of  moral 
excellence,  except  truth,  which  does  not  agree  with 
any  kind  of  horse-flesh.  The  racer  brings  with  him 
gambling,  cursing,  swearing,  drinking,  the  eating  of 
oysters,  and  a  distaste  for  mobcaps  and  the  middle-aged 
virtues. 

And  by  the  way,  let  me  beg  you  not  to  call  a 
trotting-match  a  race,  and  not  to  speak  of  a  "  thorough- 
bred "  as  a  "  blooded ''  horse,  unless  he  has  been 
recently  phlebotomized.  I  consent  to  your  saying 


30  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

"  blood  horse/'  if  you  like.  Also,  if,  next  year,  we 
send  our  Posterior  and  Posterioress,  the  winners  of  the 
great  national  four  mile  race  in  7.18i,and  they  happen 
to  get  beaten,  pay  your  bets,  and  behave  like  men  and 
gentlemen  about  it,  if  you  know  how. 

[I  felt  a  great  deal  better  after  blowing  off  the  ill- 
temper  condensed  in  the  above  paragraph.  To  brag 
little — to  show  well — to  crow  gently,  if  in  luck — to  pay 
up,  to  own  up,  and  to  shut  up,  if  beaten,  are  the 
virtues  of  a  sporting  man,  and  I  can't  say  that  I  think 
we  have  shown  them  in  any  great  perfection  of  late.] 

Apropos  of  horses,  do  you  know  how  important 

good  jockeying  is  to  authors?  Judicious  management; 
letting  the  public  see  your  animal  just  enough,  and 
not  too  much  ;  holding  him  up  hard  when  the  market 
is  too  full  of  him  ;  letting  him  out  at  just  the  right 
buying  intervals  ;  always  gently  feeling  his  mouth  ; 
never  slacking  and  never  jerking  the  rein  ; — this  ifl 
what  I  mean  by'jockeying. 

When  an  author  has  a  number  of  books  out,  a 

cunning  hand  will  keep  them  all  spinning,  as  Signor 
Blitz  does  his  dinner-plates  ;  fetching  each  one  up,  as 
it  begins  to  "  wabble,  by  an  advertisement,  a  puff,  or 
a  quotation. 

Whenever  the  extracts  from  a  living  writer 

begin  to  multiply  fast  in  the  papers,  without  obvious 
reason,  there  is  a  new  book  or  a  new  edition  coming. 
The  extracts  are  ground-bait. 

Literary  life  is  full  of  curious  phenomena.     I 

don't  know  that  there  is  anything  more  noticeable 
than  what  we  may  call  conventional  reputations.  There 
is  a  tacit  understanding  in  every  community  of  men 
of  letters  that  they  will  not  disturb  the  popular  fallacy 
respecting  this  or  that  electro-gilded  celebrity.  There 
are  various  reasons  for  this  forbearance :  one  is  old  ; 
one  is  rich  ;  one  is  good-natured  ;  one  is  such  a 
favourite  with  the  pit  that  it  would  not  be  safe  to 
hiss  him  from  the  manager's  box.  The  venerable 
augurs  of  the  literary  or  scientific  temple  may  smile 
faintly  when  one  of  the  tribe  is  mentioned  ;  but  the 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  31 

farce  is  in  general  kept  up  as  well  as  the  Chinese 
comic  scene  of  entreating  and  imploring  a  man  to  stay 
with  you,  with  the  implied  compact  between  you  that 
he  shall  by  no  means  think  of  doing  it.  A  poor 
wretch  he  must  be  who  would  wantonly  sit  down  on 
one  of  these  bandbox  reputations.  A  Prince  Rupert's 
drop,  which  is  a  tear  of  unannealed  glass,  lasts  in- 
definitely, if  you  keep  it  from  meddling  hands  ;  but 
break  its  tail  off,  and  it  explodes  and  resolves  itself 
into  powder.  These  celebrities  I  speak  of  are  the 
Prince  Rupert's  drops  of  the  learned  and  polite  world. 
See  how  the  papers  treat  them  !  What  an  array  of 
pleasant  kaleidoscopic  phrases,  which  can  be  arranged 
in  ever  so  many  charming  patterns,  is  at  their  service  ! 
How  kind  the  "Critical  Notices" — where  small  author- 
ship comes  to  pick  up  chips  of  praise,  fragrant,  sugary, 
and  sappy — always  are  to  them  !  Well,  life  would  be 
nothing  without  paper  credit  and  other  fictions  ;  so 
let  them  pass  current.  Don't  steal  their  chips  ;  don't 
puncture  their  swimming-bladders  ;  don't  come  down 
on  their  paste-board  boxes ;  don't  break  the  ends  of 
their  brittle  and  unstable  reputations,  you  fellows, 
who  all  feel  sure  that  your  names  will  be  household 
words  a  thousand  years  from  now. 

"A  thousand  years  is  a  good  while,"  said  the  old 
gentleman  who  sits  opposite,  thoughtfully. 

Where  have  I  been  for  the  last  three  or  four 

days  ?  Down  at  the  Island,  deer-shooting. — How  many 
did  I  bag?  I  brought  home  one  buck  shot.— The 
Island  is  where  ?  No  matter.  It  is  the  most  splendid 
domain  that  any  man  looks  upon  in  these  latitudes. 
Blue  sea  around  it,  and  running  up  into  its  heart,  so 
that  the  little  boat  slumbers  like  a  baby  in  lap,  while 
the  tall  ships  are  stripping  naked  to  fight  the  hurri- 
cane outside,  and  storm-stay-sails  banging  and  flying 
in  ribbons.  Trees,  in  stretches  of  miles ;  beaches, 
oaks,  most  numerous ; — many  of  them  hung  with 
moss,  looking  like  bearded  Druids  ;  some  coiled  in 
the  clasp  of  huge,  dark-stemmed  grape-vines.  Open 
patches  where  the  sun  gets  in  and  goes  to  sleep,  and 


32  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

the  winds  come  so  finely  sifted  that  they  are  as  soft 
as  swan's-down.  Rocks  scattered  about — Stoneheuge- 
like  monoliths.  Fresh-water  lakes  ;  one  of  them, 
Mary's  lake,  crystal-clear,  full  of  flashing  pickerel 
lying  under  the  lily-pads  like  tigers  in  the  jungle. 
Six  pounds  of  ditto  killed  one  morning  for  breakfast. 
EGO  fecit. 

The  divinity  student  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to 
question  my  Latin.  No,  sir,  I  said, — you  need  not 
trouble  yourself.  There  is  a  higher  law  in  grammar, 
not  to  be  put  down  by  Andrews  and  Stoddard.  Then 
I  went  on. 

Such  hospitality  as  that  Island  has  seen  there  has 
not  been  the  like  of  in  these  our  New  England 
sovereignties.  There  is  nothing  in  the  shape  of  kind- 
ness and  courtesy  that  can  make  life  beautiful,  which 
has  not  found  its  home  in  that  ocean  principality.  It 
has  welcomed  all  who  were  worthy  of  welcome,  from 
the  pale  clergyman  who  came  to  breathe  the  sea-air 
with  its  medicinal  salt  and  iodine  to  the  great  states- 
man who  turned  his  back  on  the  affairs  of  empire,  and 
smoothed  his  Olympian  forehead,  and  flashed  his  white 
teeth  in  merriment  over  the  long  table,  where  his  wit 
was  the  keenest  and  his  story  the  best. 

[I  don't  believe  any  man  ever  talked  like  that  in 
this  world.  I  don't  believe  /  talked  just  so  ;  but  the 
fact  is,  in  reporting  one's  conversation,  one  cannot 
help  Blair-ing  it  up  more  or  less,  ironing  out  crumpled 
paragraphs,  starching  limp  ones,  and  crimping  and 
plaiting  a  little  sometimes  ;  it  is  as  natural  as  prinking 
at  the  looking-glass.] 

How  can  a  man  help  writing  poetry  in  such  a 

place  ?  Everybody  does  write  poetry  that  goes  there. 
In  the  state  archives,  kept  in  the  library  of  the  Lord 
of  the  Isle,  are  whole  volumes  of  unpublished  verse — 
some  by  well-known  hands,  and  others,  quite  as  good, 
by  the  last  people  you  would  think  of  as  versifiers, — 
men  who  could  pension  off  all  the  genuine  poets  in 
the  country,  and  buy  ten  acres  of  Boston  common,  if 
it  was  for  sale,  with  what  they  had  left.  Of  course  I 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  33 

had  to  write  my  little  copy  of  verses  with  the  rest ; 
here  it  is,  if  you  will  hear  me  read  it.  When  the  sun 
is  in  the  west,  vessels  sailing  in  an  easterly  direction 
look  bright  or  dark  to  one  who  observes  them  from  the 
north  or  south,  according  to  the  tack  they  are  sail- 
ing upon.  Watching  them  from  one  of  the  windows 
of  the  great  mansion,  I  saw  these  perpetual  changes, 
and  moralised  thus  : — 

SUN  AND  SHADOW 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half-dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail ; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun, — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar  ; 
How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  that  gaze  from  the  shore  ! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee, 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a  wind-wafted  leaf, 

O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim-vaulted  caves 

Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade  ; 
Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  our  shadow  grow  dark, 

We'll  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore  ! 

Insanity   is   often   the    logic    of    an    accurate 

mind  overtasked.     Good  mental  machinery  ought  to 
c 


36  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

voice,  acting  in  those  love-dramas  which  make  us 
young  again  to  look  upon,  when  real  youth  and  beauty 
will  play  them  for  us. 

Of  course  I  wrote  the  prologue  I  was  asked 

to  write.  I  did  not  see  the  play,  though.  I  knew 
there  was  a  young  lady  in  it,  and  that  somebody  was 
in  love  with  her,  and  she  was  in  love  with  him,  and 
somebody  (an  old  tutor,  I  believe)  wanted  to  interfere, 
and,  very  naturally,  the  young  lady  was  too  sharp  for 
him.  The  play  of  course  ends  charmingly  ;  there  is 
a  general  reconciliation,  and  all  concerned  form  a 
line  and  take  each  other's  hands,  as  people  always  do 
after  they  have  made  up  their  quarrels, — and  then  the 
curtain  falls, — if  it  does  not  stick,  as  it  commonly 
does  at  private  theatrical  exhibitions,  in  which  case  a 
boy  is  detailed  to  pull  it  down,  which  he  does,  blushing 
violently. 

Now,  then,  for  my  prologue.  I  am  not  going  to 
change  my  caesuras  and  cadences  for  anybody  ;  so  if 
you  do  not  like  the  heroic,  or  iambic  trimeter  brachy- 
<»talectic,  you  had  better  not  wait  to  hear  it. 

THIS  IS  IT 

A  Prologue  ?    Well,  of  course  the  ladies  know  ; — 
I  have  my  doubts.     No  matter,  here  we  go  ! 
What  is  a  Prologue  ?     Let  our  Tutor  teach  : 
Pro  means  beforehand  ;  logos  stands  for  speech. 
Tis  like  the  harper's  prelude  on  the  strings, 
The  prima  donna's  courtsey  ere  she  sings  ; — • 
Prologues  in  metre  are  to  other  pros 
As  worsted  stockings  are  to  engine-hose. 

"The  world's  a    stage,"  —  as   Shakspeare    said,   one 

day; 

The  stage  a  world — was  what  he  meant  to  say. 
The  outside  world's  a  blunder,  that  is  clear  ; 
The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 
Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma  ; 
Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern  papa  ; 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  37 

Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift's  debts  are  paid, 

The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid  ; 

One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past, 

Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at  last, 

When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues,  and  all, 

Join  hands  so  happy  at  the  curtain's  fall. 

Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief, 

And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to  grief. 

— When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a  frantic  screech, 

And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy-peach, 

Cries,  "  Help,  kyind  Heaven  ! "  and  drops  upon  her 

knees 

On  the  green — baize, — beneath  the  (canvas)  trees, — 
See  to  her  side  avenging  Valour  fly  : — 
"  Ha  !  Villain  !  Draw  !  Now,  Terraitorr,  yield  or  die  ! " 
— When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 
Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionaire, — 
Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal  joy, 
Sobs  on  his  neck,  "  My  boy  !  MY  BOY  !  !  MY  BOY  ! ! ! » 

Ours  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world  to-night, 

Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster's  spite. 

Ladies,  attend.     While  woeful  cares  and  doubt 

Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  without. 

Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence  interfere, 

One  thing  is  certain  :  Love  will  triumph  here  ! 

Lords  of  creation,  whom  your  ladies  rule, — 

The  world's  great  masters,  when  you're  out  of  school, — 

Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening's  play  : 

Man  has  his  will, — but  woman  has  her  way  ! 

While  man's  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and  fire, 

Woman's  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric  wire, — 

The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the  waves 

Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of  slaves. 

All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign  art 

But  that  one  rebel, — woman's  wilful  heart. 

All  foes  you  master  ;  but  a  woman's  wit 

Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know  you're  hit. 

So  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do, 

Hear  an  old  story  made  as  good  as  new. 


38  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade, 

Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 

One  day,  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 

Knelt  at  the  block,  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 

Bare-armed,  swart- visaged,  gaunt,  and  shaggy-browed, 

Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 

His  falchion  lightened  with  a  sudden  gleam, 

As  the  pike's  armour  flashes  in  the  stream. 

He  sheathed  his  blade  ;  he  turned  as  if  to  go : 

The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 

"  Why  strikest  not  ?     Perform  thy  murderous  act/' 

The  prisoner  said.     (His  voice  was  slightly  cracked.) 

"  Friend,  I  have  struck,"  the  artist  straight  replied  ; 

"  Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide. 

He  held  his  snuff-box, — "  Now,  then,  if  you  please  ! " 
The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a  crashing  sneeze, 
Off  his  head  tumbled, — bowled  along  the  floor, 
Bounced  down  the  steps  ; — the  prisoner  said  no  more  ! 
Woman  !  thy  falchion  is  a  glittering  eye  ; 
If  death  lurks  in  it,  O  how  sweet  to  die  ! 
Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the  head  ; 
We  die  with  love  and  never  dream  we're  dead  ! 

The  prologue  went  off  very  well,  as  I  hear.  No 
alterations  were  suggested  by  the  lady  to  whom  it 
was  sent,  so  far  as  I  know.  Sometimes  people  criticise 
the  poems  one  sends  them,  and  suggest  all  sorts  of 
improvements.  Who  was  that  silly  body  that  wanted 
Burns  to  alter  "  Scots  wha  hae,"  so  as  to  lengthen  the 
last  line,  thus  ? — 

"  Edward  !  "     Chains  and  slavery  ! 

Here  is  a  little  poem  I  sent  a  short  time  since  to  a 
committee  for  a  certain  celebration.  I  understood 
that  it  was  to  be  a  festive  and  convivial  occasion,  and 
ordered  myself  accordingly.  It  seems  the  president 
of  the  day  was  what  is  called  a  "  teetotaller."  I  received 
a  note  from  him  in  the  following  words,  containing 
the  copy  subjoined,  with  the  emendations  annexed  to  it. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  39 

"  DEAR  SIR, — Your  poem  gives  good  satisfaction 
to  the  committee.  The  sentiments  expressed  with 
reference  to  liquor,  are  not,  however,  those  generally 
entertained  by  this  community.  I  have  therefore 
consulted  the  clergyman  of  this  place,  who  has  made 
some  slight  changes,  which  he  thinks  will  remove  all 
objections,  and  keep  the  valuable  portions  of  the  poem. 
Please  to  inform  me  of  your  charge  for  said  poem. 
Our  means  are  limited,  etc.,  etc. 

"  Yours  with  respect." 

HERE  IT  IS,— WITH  THE  SLIGHT  ALTERATIONS  I 

Come  !  fill  a  fresh  bumper, — for  why  should  we  go 

logwood 
While  the  nectar  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they  flow  ? 

decoction 
Pour  out  the  rich  juices  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 
Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubies  shall  run. 

half-ripened  apples 
The  purple  globed  clusters  their  life-dews  hare  bled ; 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  fragrance  they  shed  : 

rank  poisons  wine*  III 

For  summer's  last  roses  lie  hid  in  the  wines, 

stable-boys  smoking  long-nine*. 
That  were  garnered  by  maidens  who  laughed  thro'  the  vines. 

scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Then  a  smile  and  a  glass,  and  a  toast,  and  a  cheer, 

strychnine  and  whisky,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 
For  all  the  good  wine,  and  we've  some  of  it  here  ! 
In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down,  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all! 
Long  live  the  gay  servant  that  laughs  for  us  all ! 

The  company  said  I  had  been  shabbily  treated,  and 
advised  me  to  charge  the  committee  double — which  I 
did.  But  as  I  never  got  my  pay,  I  don't  know  that 
it  made  much  difference.  I  am  a  very  particular 
person  about  having  all  I  write  printed  as  I  write  it. 


40  THE  AUTOCRAT 

I  require  to  see  a  proof,  a  revise,  a  re-revise,  and  a 
double  re-revise,  or  fourth-proof  rectified  impression 
of  all  my  productions,  especially  verse.  A  misprint 
kills  a  sensitive  author.  An  intentional  change  of  his 
text  murders  him.  No  wonder  so  many  poets  die 
young  ! 

I  have  nothing  more  to  report  at  this  time,  except 
two  pieces  of  advice  I  gave  to  the  young  women  at 
table.  One  relates  to  a  vulgarism  of  language,  which 
I  grieve  to  say  is  sometimes  heard  even  from  female 
lips.  The  other  is  of  more  serious  purport,  and 
applies  to  such  as  contemplate  a  change  of  condition — 
matrimony  in  fact. 

The  woman  who  "  calc'lates  "  is  lost. 

Put  not  your  trust  in  money,  but  put  your 

money  in  trust. 


Ill 

[THE  "Atlantic"  obeys  the  moon,  and  its  LUNIVER- 
SARY  has  come  round  again.  I  have  gathered  up 
some  hasty  notes  of  my  remarks  made  since  the  last 
high  tides,  which  I  respectfully  submit.  Please  to 
remember  this  is  talk  ;  just  as  easy  and  just  as  formal 
as  I  choose  to  make  it.] 

1  never  saw  an  author  in  my  life  —  saving, 

perhaps  one — that  did  not  purr  as  audibly  as  a  full- 
grown  domestic  cat  (Felis  Catus,  LINN.)  on  having  his 
fur  smoothed  in  the  right  way  by  a  skilful  hand. 

But  let  me  give  you  a  caution.  Be  very  careful 
how  you  tell  an  author  he  is  droll.  Ten  to  one  he 
will  hate  you ;  and  if  he  does,  be  sure  he  can  do  you 
a  mischief,  and  very  probably  will.  Say  you  cried 
over  his  romance  or  his  verses,  and  he  will  love  you 
and  send  you  a  copy.  Yon  can  laugh  over  that  aa 
much  as  you  like — in  private. 

Wonder  why  authors  and  actors  are  ashamed 

of  being  funny?  Why,  there  are  obvious  reasons,  and 
deep  philosophical  ones.  The  clown  knows  very  well 
that  the  women  are  not  in  love  with  him,  but  with 
Hamlet,  the  fellow  in  the  black  cloak  and  plumed  hat. 
Passion  never  laughs.  The  wit  knows  that  his  place 
is  at  the  tail  of  a  procession. 

If  you  want  the  deep  underlying  reason,  I  must 
take  more  time  to  tell  it.  There  is  a  perfect  con- 
sciousness in  every  form  of  wit — using  that  term  in 
its  general  sense — that  its  essence  consists  in  a  partial 
and  incomplete  view  of  whatever  it  touches.  It  throws 
a  single  ray,  separated  from  the  rest, —  red,  yellow, 
blue,  or  any  intermediate  shade  —  upon  an  object ; 
never  white  light ;  that  is  the  providence  of  wisdom. 

41 


42  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

We  get  beautiful  effects  from  wit — all  the  prismatic 
colours — but  never  the  object  as  it  is  in  fair  daylight. 
A  pun,  which  is  a  kind  of  wit,  is  a  different  and  much 
shallower  trick  in  mental  optics ;  throwing  the  shadows 
of  two  objects  so  that  one  overlies  the  other.  Poetry 
uses  the  rainbow  tints  for  special  effects,  but  always 
keeps  its  essential  object  in  the  purest  white  light  of 
truth.  Will  you  allow  me  to  pursue  this  subject  a 
little  further  ? 

[They  didn't  allow  me  at  that  time,  for  somebody 
happened  to  scrape  the  floor  with  his  chair  just  then  ; 
which  accidental  sound,  as  all  must  have  noticed,  has 
the  instantaneous  effect  that  the  cutting  of  the  yellow 
hair  by  Iris  had  upon  infelix  Dido.  It  broke  the 
charm  and  that  breakfast  was  over.] 

Don't  flatter  yourselves  that  friendship  author- 
izes you  to  say  disagreeable  things  to  your  intimates. 
On  the  contrary,  the  nearer  you  come  into  a  relation 
with  a  person,  the  more  necessary  do  tact  and  courtesy 
become.  Except  in  cases  of  necessity,  which  are  rare, 
leave  your  friend  to  learn  unpleasant  truths  from  his 
enemies  ;  they  are  ready  enough  to  tell  them.  Good- 
breeding  never  forgets  that  amour-propre  is  universal. 
When  you  read  the  story  of  the  Archbishop  and  Gil 
Bias,  you  may  laugh,  if  you  will,  at  the  poor  old  man's 
delusion  ;  but  don't  forget  that  the  youth  was  the 
greater  fool  of  the  two,  and  that  his  master  served 
such  a  booby  rightly  in  turning  him  out  of  doors. 

You  need  not  get  up  a  rebellion  against  what 

I  say,  if  you  find  everything  in  my  sayings  is  not 
exactly  new.  You  can't  possibly  mistake  a  man  who 
means  to  be  honest  for  a  literary  pickpocket.  I  once 
read  an  introductory  lecture  that  looked  to  me  too 
learned  for  its  latitude.  On  examination,  I  found  all 
its  erudition  was  taken  ready-made  from  D'Israeli. 
If  I  had  been  ill-natured,  I  should  have  shown  up  the 
little  great  man,  who  had  once  belaboured  me  in  his 
feeble  way.  But  one  can  generally  tell  these  whole- 
sale thieves  easily  enough,  and  they  are  not  worth 
the  trouble  of  putting  them  in  the  pillory.  I  doubt 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  43 

the  entire  novelty  of  my  remarks  just  made  on  telling 
unpleasant  truths,  yet  I  am  not  conscious  of  any 
larceny. 

Neither  make  too  much  of  flaws  and  occasional 
over-statements.  Some  persons  seem  to  think  that 
absolute  truth,  in  the  form  of  rigidly-stated  proposi- 
tions, is  all  that  conversation  admits.  This  is  precisely 
as  if  a  musician  should  insist  on  having  nothing  but 
perfect  chords,  and  simple  melodies, — no  diminished 
fifths,  no  flat  sevenths,  no  flourishes,  on  any  account. 
Now  it  is  fair  to  say,  that,  just  as  music  must  have  all 
these,  so  conversation  must  have  its  partial  truths, 
its  embellished  truths,  its  exaggerated  truths.  It  is 
in  its  higher  forms  an  artistic  product,  and  admits  the 
ideal  element  as  much  as  pictures  or  statues.  One 
man  who  is  a  little  too  literal  can  spoil  the  talk  of  a 
whole  tableful  of  men  of  esprit. — "  Yes,"  you  say, 
"but  who  wants  to  hear  fanciful  people's  nonsense? 
Put  the  facts  to  it,  and  then  see  where  it  is." — 
Certainly,  if  a  man  is  too  fond  of  a  paradox,  if  he  is 
flighty  and  empty — if  instead  of  striking  those  fifths, 
and  sevenths,  those  harmonious  discords,  often  so 
much  better  than  the  twinned  octaves,  in  the  music 
of  thought, — if,  instead  of  striking  these,  he  jangles 
the  chords,  stick  a  fact  into  him  like  a  stiletto.  But 
remember  that  talking  is  one  of  the  fine  arts — the 
noblest,  the  most  important,  and  the  most  difficult — 
and  that  its  fluent  harmonies  may  be  spoilt  by  the 
intrusion  of  a  single  harsh  note.  Therefore  conver- 
sation which  is  suggestive  rather  than  argumentative, 
which  lets  out  the  most  of  each  talker's  results  of 
thought,  is  commonly  the  pleasantest  and  the  most 
profitable.  It  is  not  easy,  at  the  best,  for  two  persons 
talking  together  to  make  the  most  of  each  other's 
thoughts,  there  are  so  many  of  them. 

[The  company  looked  as  if  they  wanted  an  explana- 
tion.] 

When  John  and  Thomas,  for  instance,  are  talking 
together,  it  is  natural  enough  that  among  the  six  there 
should  be  more  or  less  confusion  and  misapprehension. 


44  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

[Our  landlady  turned  pale  —  no  doubt  she  thought 
there  was  a  screw  loose  in  my  intellects  —  and  that 
involved  the  probable  loss  of  a  boarder.  A  severe- 
looking  person,  who  wears  a  Spanish  cloak,  and  a  sad 
cheek,  fluted  by  the  passions  of  the  melodrama,  whom 
I  understand  to  be  the  professional  ruffian  of  the 
neighbouring  theatre,  alluded,  with  a  certain  lifting  of 
the  brow,  drawing  down  of  the  corners  of  the  mouth, 
and  somewhat  rasping  voce  di  petto,  to  Falstaifs  nine 
men  in  buckram.  Everybody  looked  up.  1  believe 
the  old  gentleman  opposite  was  afraid  1  should  seize 
the  carving-knife  ;  at  any  rate,  he  slid  it  to  one  side, 
as  it  were  carelessly.] 

I  think,  I  said,  I  can  make  it  plain  to  Benjamin 
Franklin  here  that  there  are  at  least  six  personalities 
distinctly  to  be  recognised  as  taking  part  in  that 
dialogue  between  John  and  Thomas. 

The  real  John  ;  known  only  to  his  Maker. 
1  2.  John's  ideal  John  ;   never  the  real   one, 
Three  and  often  very  unlike  him. 

Johns.  1  3.  Thomas's  ideal  John  ;  never  the  real 
John,  nor  John's  John,  but  often  very 
unlike  either. 


Three         f*'  ^e  rea^  Thomas. 
Thomases      I  2<  T^0"™8'8  ideal  Thomas. 
^3.  John's  ideal  Thomas. 

Only  one  of  the  three  Johns  is  taxed  ;  only  one  can 
be  weighed  on  a  platform  balance  ;  but  the  other  two 
are  just  as  important  in  the  conversation.  Let  us 
suppose  the  real  John  to  be  old,  dull,  and  ill-looking. 
But  as  the  Higher  Powers  have  not  conferred  on  men 
the  gift  of  seeing  themselves  in  the  true  light,  John 
very  possibly  conceives  himself  to  be  youthful,  witty, 
and  fascinating,  and  talks  from  the  point  of  view  of 
this  ideal.  Thomas,  again,  believes  him  to  be  an 
artful  rogue,  we  will  say  ;  therefore  he  t'*,  so  far  as 
Thomas's  attitude  in  the  conversation  is  concerned,  an 
artful  rogue,  though  really  simple  and  .stupid.  The 
same  conditions  apply  to  the  three  Thomases.  It 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  45 

follows,  that  until  a  man  can  be  found  who  knows 
himself  as  his  Maker  knows  him,  or  who  sees  himself 
as  others  see  him,  there  must  be  at  least  six  persons 
engaged  in  every  dialogue  between  two.  Of  these, 
the  least  important,  philosophically  speaking,  is  the 
one  that  we  have  called  the  real  person.  No  wonder 
two  disputants  often  get  angry,  when  there  are  six  of 
them  talking  and  listening  all  at  the  same  time. 

[A  very  unphilosophical  application  of  the  above 
remarks  was  made  by  a  young  fellow,  answering  to  the 
name  of  John,  who  sits  near  me  at  table.  A  certain 
basket  of  peaches,  a  rare  vegetable,  little  known  to 
boarding-houses,  was  on  its  way  to  me  via  this  un- 
lettered Johannes.  He  appropriated  the  three  that 
remained  in  the  basket,  remarking  that  there  was  just 
one  apiece  for  him.  I  convinced  him  that  his  practical 
inference  was  hasty  and  illogical,  but  in  the  meantime 
he  had  eaten  the  peaches.] 

The  opinions  of  relatives  as  to  a  man's  powers 

are  very  commonly  of  little  value  ;  not  merely  because 
they  sometimes  overrate  their  own  flesh  and  blood,  as 
some  may  suppose  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  are  quite  as 
likely  to  underrate  those  whom  they  have  grown  into 
the  habit  of  considering  like  themselves.  The  advent 
of  genius  is  like  what  florists  style  the  breaking  of 
a  seedling  tulip  into  what  we  may  call  high-caste 
colours, — ten  thousand  dingy  flowers,  then  one  with 
the  divine  streak  ;  or,  if  you  prefer  it,  like  the  coming 
up  in  old  Jacob's  garden  of  that  most  gentlemanly 
little  fruit,  the  Seckel  pear,  which  I  have  sometimes 
seen  in  shop  windows.  It  is  a  surprise, — there  is 
nothing  to  account  for  it.  All  at  once  we  find  that 
twice  two  make  five.  Nature  is  fond  of  what  are 
called  "  gift-enterprises."  This  little  book  of  life 
which  she  has  given  into  the  hands  of  its  joint 
possessors  is  commonly  one  of  the  old  story-books 
bound  over  again.  Only  once  in  a  great  while  there 
is  a  stately  poem  in  it,  or  its  leaves  are  illuminated 
with  the  glories  of  art,  or  they  enfold  a  draft  for 
untold  values  signed  by  the  million-fold  millionaire 


46  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

old  mother  herself.  But  strangers  are  commonly  the 
first  to  find  the  "  gift "  that  came  with  the  little  book. 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  anything  can  be 
conscious  of  its  own  flavour.  Whether  the  muskdeer, 
or  the  civet-cat,  or  even  a  still  more  eloquently  silent 
animal  that  might  be  mentioned,  is  aware  of  any 
personal  peculiarity,  may  well  be  doubted.  No  man 
knows  his  own  voice ;  many  men  do  not  know  their 
own  profiles.  Every  one  remembers  Carlyle's  famous 
f<  Characteristics "  article  ;  allow  for  exaggerations, 
and  there  is  a  great  deal  in  his  doctrine  of  the  self- 
unconsciousness  of  genius.  It  comes  under  the  great 
law  just  stated.  This  incapacity  of  knowing  its  own 
traits  is  often  found  in  the  family  as  well  as  in  the 
individual.  So  never  mind  what  your  cousins, 
brothers,  sisters,  uncles,  aunts,  and  the  rest  say  about 
that  fine  poem  you  have  written,  but  send  it  (postage 
paid)  to  the  editors,  if  there  are  any,  of  the  "  Atlantic," 
— which,  by  the  way,  is  not  so  called,  because  it  is  a 
notion,  as  some  dull  wits  wish  they  had  said,  but  are 
too  late. 

Scientific  knowledge,  even  in  the  most  modest 

persons,  has  mingled  with  it  a  something  which  par- 
takes of  insolence.  Absolute,  peremptory  facts  are 
bullies,  and  those  who  keep  company  with  them  are 
apt  to  get  a  bullying  habit  of  mind  ; — not  of  manners, 
perhaps ;  they  may  be  soft  and  smooth,  but  the  smile 
they  carry  has  a  quiet  assertion  in  it,  such  as  the 
Champion  of  the  Heavy  Weights,  commonly  the  best- 
natured,  but  not  the  most  diffident  of  men,  wears 
upon  what  he  very  inelegantly  calls  his  "mug." 
Take  the  man,  for  instance,  who  deals  in  the  mathe- 
matical sciences.  There  is  no  elasticity  in  a  mathe- 
matical fact ;  if  you  bring  up  against  it,  it  never  yields 
a  hair's  breadth  ;  everything  must  go  to  pieces  that 
comes  in  collision  with  it.  What  the  mathematician 
knows  being  absolute,  unconditional,  incapable  of 
suffering  question,  it  should  tend,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  to  breed  a  despotic  way  of  thinking.  So  of 
those  who  deal  with  the  palpable  and  often  unmis- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  47 

takable  facts  of  external  nature ;  only  in  a  less 
degree.  Every  probability — and  most  of  our  common, 
working  beliefs  are  probabilities — is  provided  with 
buffers  at  botb  ends,  which  break  the  force  of  opposite 
opinions  clashing  against  it ;  but  scientific  certainty 
has  no  spring  in  it,  no  courtesy,  no  possibility  of 
yielding.  All  this  must  react  on  the  minds  which 
handle  these  forms  of  truth. 

O,  you  need  not  tell  me  that  Messrs  A.  and 

B.  are  the  most  gracious,  unassuming  people  in  the 
world,  and  yet  pre-eminent  in  the  ranges  of  science  I 
am  referring  to.  I  know  that  as  well  as  you.  But 
mark  this  which  I  am  going  to  say  once  for  all :  If 
I  had  not  force  enough  to  project  a  principle  full 
in  the  face  of  the  half-dozen  most  obvious  facts  which 
seem  to  contradict  it,  I  would  think  only  in  single 
file  from  this  day  forward.  A  rash  man  once,  visiting 
a  certain  noted  institution  at  South  Boston,  ventured 
to  express  the  sentiment  that  man  is  a  rational  being. 
An  old  woman  who  was  an  attendant  in  the  Idiot 
School  contradicted  the  statement,  and  appealed  to 
the  facts  before  the  speaker  to  disprove  it.  The 
rash  man  stuck  to  his  hasty  generalization,  notwith- 
standing. 

[ It  is  my  desire  to  be  useful  to  those  with 

whom  I  am  associated  in  my  daily  relations.  I  not 
unfrequently  practise  the  divine  art  of  music  in 
company  with  our  landlady's  daughter,  who,  as  I 
mentioned  before,  is  the  owner  of  an  accordion. 
Having  myself  a  well-marked  baritone  voice,  of  more 
than  half  an  octave  in  compass,  I  sometimes  add  my 
vocal  powers  to  her  execution  of 

"  Thou,  thou  reign'st  in  this  bosom  ; " 

not,  however,  unless  her  mother  or  some  other  discreet 
female  is  present,  to  prevent  misinterpretation  or 
remark.  I  have  also  taken  a  good  deal  of  interest  in 
Benjamin  Franklin,  before  referred  to,  sometimes 
called  B.  F.,  or  more  frequently  Frank,  in  imitation  of 
that  felicitous  abbreviation,  combining  dignity  and 


48  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

convenience,  adopted  by  some  of  his  betters.  My 
acquaintance  with  the  French  language  is  very  im- 
perfect, I  having  never  studied  it  anywhere  but  in 
Paris,  which  is  awkward,  as  B.  F.  devotes  himself  to 
it  with  the  peculiar  advantage  of  an  Alsacian  teacher. 
The  boy,  I  think,  is  doing  well,  between  us,  notwith- 
standing. The  following  is  an  uncorrected  French 
exercise,  written  by  this  young  gentleman.  His 
mother  thinks  it  very  creditable  to  his  abilities ; 
though,  being  unacquainted  with  the  French  language, 
her  judgment  cannot  be  considered  final. 

LB  RAT  DBS  SALONS  A  LECTURE 

Ce  rat  ci  est  un  animal  fort  singulier.  II  a  deux 
pattes  de  derriere  sur  lesquelles  il  marche,  et  deux 
pattes  de  devant  dont  il  fait  usage  pour  tenir  les 
journaux.  Get  animal  a  la  peau  noire  pour  le  plupart, 
et  porte  un  cercle  blanchatre  autour  de  son  cou.  On 
le  trouve  tous  les  jours  aux  dits  salons,  ou  il  demeure, 
digere  s'il  y  a  de  quoi  dans  son  interieur,  respire, 
tousse,  eternued,  dort,  et  ronfle  quelquefois,  ayant 
toujours  le  semblant  de  lire.  On  ne  sait  pas  s'il  a  une 
autre  gite  que  cela.  II  a  I'air  d'une  bete  tres  stupide, 
mais  il  est  d'une  sagacite  et  d'une  vitesse  extraordinaire 
quand  il  s'agit  de  saisir  un  journal  nouveau.  On  ne 
sait  pas  pourquoi  il  lit,  parcequ'il  ne  parait  pas  avoir 
des  idees.  II  vocalise  rarement,  mais  en  revanche,  il 
sait  des  bruits  nasaux  divers.  II  porte  un  crayon  dans 
une  de  ses  poches  pectorales,  avec  lequel  il  fait  des 
marques  sur  les  bords  des  journaux  et  des  livres,  sembl- 
able  aux  suivans  : — !  !  !  Bah  Pooh  !  II  ne  faut  pas 
cependant  les  prendre  pour  des  signes  d'intelligence. 
II  ne  vole  pas,  ordinairement ;  il  fait  rarement  meme 
des  echanges  de  parapluie,  et  jamais  de  chapeau, 
parceque  son  chapeau  a  todjours  un  caractere  speci- 
fique.  On  ne  sait  pas  au  juste  ce  dont  il  se  nourrit. 
Feu  Cuvier  etait  d'avis  que  c'etait  de  1'odeur  du  cuir  des 
reliures  ;  ce  qu'on  dit  d'etre  une  nourriture  animale  fort 
«aine,  et  peu  chere.  II  vit  bien  longtems.  Eufin  il 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  49 

meure,  en  laisant  a  ses  heritiers  une  carte  du  Salon 
a  Lecture  ou  il  avait  existe  pendant  sa  vie.  On  pretend 
qu'il  revient  toutes  les  nuits,  apres  la  mort,  visiter  le 
Salon.  On  peut  le  voir,  dit  on,  a  minuit,  dans  sa 
place  habituelle,  tenant  le  journal  du  soir,  et  ayant  a 
sa  main  un  crayon  de  charbon.  Le  lendemain  on  trouve 
des  caracteres  inconnus  sur  les  bords  du  journal.  Ce 
qui  prouve  que  le  spiritualisme  est  vrai,  et  que  Mes- 
sieurs les  Professeurs  de  Cambridge  sont  des  imbeciles 
qui  ne  savent  rien  du  tout,  du  tout. 

[I  think  this  exercise,  which  I  have  not  corrected  or 
allowed  to  be  touched  in  any  way,  is  not  discreditable 
to  B.  F.  You  observe  that  he  is  acquiring  a  know- 
ledge of  zoology  at  the  same  time  that  he  is  learning 
French.  Fathers  of  families  in  moderate  circum- 
stances will  find  it  profitable  to  their  children,  and  an 
economical  mode  of  instruction,  to  set  them  to  revis- 
ing and  amending  this  boy's  exercise.  The  passage 
was  originally  taken  from  the  "  Histoire  Naturelle 
des  Betes  Ruminans  et  Rongeurs,  Bipedes  et  Autres," 
lately  published  in  Paris.  This  was  translated  into 
English  and  published  in  London.  It  was  republished 
at  Great  Pedlington,  with  notes  and  additions  by  the 
American  editor.  The  notes  consist  of  an  interroga- 
tion-mark on  page  53rd,  and  a  reference  (p.  127th) 
to  another  book  "  edited "  by  the  same  hand.  The 
additions  consist  of  the  editor's  name  on  the  title-page 
and  back,  with  a  complete  and  authentic  list  of  said 
editor's  honorary  titles  in  the  first  of  these  localities. 
Our  boy  translated  the  translation  back  into  French. 
This  may  be  compared  with  the  original,  to  be  found 
on  Shelf  13,  Division  X. ,  of  the  Public  Library  of  this 
metropolis.] 

Some  of  you  boarders  ask  me  from  time  to 

time  why  I  don't  write  a  story,  or  a  novel,  or  something 
of  that  kind.  Instead  of  answering  each  one  of  you 
separately,  I  will  thank  you  to  step  up  into  the  whole- 
sale department  for  a  few  moments,  where  I  deal  in 
answers  by  the  piece  and  by  the  bale. 


60  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

That  every  articulately-speaking  human  being  has 
in  him  stuff  for  one  novel  in  three  volumes  duodecimo 
has  long  been  with  me  a  cherished  belief.  It  has  been 
maintained,  on  the  other  hand,  that  many  persons 
cannot  write  more  than  one  novel, — that  all  after  that 
are  likely  to  be  failures. — Life  is  so  much  more  tre- 
mendous a  thing  in  its  heights  and  depths  than  any 
transcript  of  it  can  be,  that  all  records  of  human  ex- 
perience are  as  so  many  bound  herbaria  to  the  innum- 
erable glowing,  glistening,  rustling,  breathing,  frag- 
rance-laden, poison-sucking,  life-giving,  death-distill- 
ing leaves  and  flowers  of  the  forest  and  the  prairies. 
All  we  can  do  with  books  of  human  experience  is  to 
make  them  alive  again  with  something  borrowed  from 
our  own  lives.  We  can  make  a  book  alive  for  us  just 
in  proportion  to  its  resemblance  in  essence  or  in  form 
to  our  own  experience.  Now  an  author's  first  novel  is 
naturally  drawn,  to  a  great  extent,  from  his  personal 
experiences  ;  that  is,  is  a  literal  copy  of  nature  under 
various  slight  disguises.  But  the  moment  the  author 
gets  out  of  his  personality,  he  must  have  the  creative 
power,  as  well  as  the  narrative  art  and  the  sentiment, 
in  order  to  tell  a  living  story  ;  and  this  is  rare. 

Besides,  there  is  great  danger  that  a  man's  first  life- 
story  shall  clean  him  out,  so  to  speak,  of  his  best 
thoughts.  Most  lives,  though  their  stream  is  loaded 
with  sand  and  turbid  with  alluvial  waste,  drop  a  few 
golden  grains  of  wisdom  as  they  flow  along.  Often- 
times a  single  cradling  gets  them  all,  and  after  that  the 
poor  man's  labour  is  only  rewarded  by  mud  and  worn 
pebbles.  All  which  proves  that  I,  as  an  individual 
of  the  human  family,  could  write  one  novel  or  story 
at  any  rate  if  I  would. 

Why  don't  I,  then  ? — Well,  there  are  several 

reasons  against  it.  In  the  first  place,  I  should  tell  all 
my  secrets,  and  I  maintain  that  verse  is  the  proper 
medium  for  such  revelations.  Rhythm  and  rhyme 
and  the  harmonies  of  musical  language,  the  play  of 
fancy,  the  fire  of  imagination,  the  flashes  of  passion, 
so  hide  the  nakedness  of  a  heart  laid  open,  that  hardly 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  51 

any  confession,  transfigured  in  the  luminous  halo  of 
poetry,  is  reproached  as  self-exposure.  A  beauty 
shows  herself  under  the  chandeliers,  protected  by  the 
glitter  of  her  diamonds,  with  such  a  broad  snow-drift 
of  white  arms  and  shoulders  laid  bare,  that,  were  she 
unadorned  and  in  plain  calico,  she  would  be  unendur- 
able,— in  the  opinion  of  the  ladies. 

Again,  I  am  terribly  afraid  I  should  show  up  all  ray 
friends.  I  should  like  to  know  if  all  story-tellers  do 
not  do  this  ?  Now  I  am  afraid  all  my  friends  would 
not  bear  showing  up  very  well ;  for  they  have  an 
average  share  of  the  common  weakness  of  humanity, 
which  I  am  pretty  certain  would  come  out.  Of  all 
that  have  told  stories  among  us  there  is  hardly  one 
I  can  recall  who  has  not  drawn  too  faithfully  some 
living  portrait  that  might  better  have  been  spared. 

Once  more,  I  have  sometimes  thought  it  possible  I 
might  be  too  dull  to  write  such  a  story  as  I  should 
wish  to  write. 

And  finally,  I  think  it  very  likely  I  shall  write  a 
story  one  of  these  days.  Don't  be  surprised  at  any 
time  if  you  see  me  coming  out  with  "The  School- 
mistress," or  "  The  Old  Gentleman  Opposite."  [Our 
schoolmistress  and  our  old  gentleman  that  sits  oppo- 
site had  left  the  table  before  I  said  this.  ]  I  want  my 
glory  for  writing  the  same  discounted  now,  on  the 
spot,  if  you  please.  I  will  write  when  I  get  ready. 
How  many  people  live  on  the  reputation  of  the  reputa- 
tion they  might  have  made  ! 

I  saw  you  smile  when  I  spoke  about  the  possi- 
bility of  my  being  too  dull  to  write  a  good  story.  I 
don't  pretend  to  know  what  you  meant  by  it,  but  I 
take  occasion  to  make  a  remark  which  may  hereafter 
prove  of  value  to  some  among  you. — When  one  of  us 
who  has  been  led  by  native  vanity  or  senseless  flattery 
to  think  himself  or  herself  possessed  of  talent  arrives 
at  the  full  and  final  conclusion  that  he  or  she  is  really 
dull,  it  is  one  of  the  most  tranquillizing  and  blessed 
convictions  that  can  enter  a  mortal's  mind.  All  our 
failures,  our  shortcomings,  our  strange  disappoint- 


62  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

ments  in  the  effect  of  our  efforts  are  lifted  from  our 
bruised  shoulders,  and  fall,  like  Christian's  pack,  at 
the  feet  of  that  Omnipotence  which  has  seen  fit  to  deny 
us  the  pleasant  gift  of  high  intelligence, — with  which 
one  look  may  overflow  us  in  some  wider  sphere  of 
being. 

How  sweetly  and  honestly  one  said  to  me  the 

other  day,  "  I  hate  books  ! "  A  gentleman — singularly 
free  from  affectations — not  learned,  of  course,  but  of 
perfect  breeding,  which  is  often  so  much  better  than 
learning — by  no  means  dull,  in  the  sense  of  knowledge 
of  the  world  and  society,  but  certainly  not  clever 
either  in  the  arts  or  sciences — his  company  is  pleasing 
to  all  who  know  him.  I  did  not  recognise  in  him 
inferiority  of  literary  taste  half  so  distinctly  as  I  did 
simplicity  of  character  and  fearless  acknowledgment 
of  his  inaptitude  for  scholarship.  In  fact,  I  think 
there  are  a  great  many  gentlemen  and  others,  who 
read  with  a  mark  to  keep  their  place,  that  really 
"  hate  books,"  but  never  had  the  wit  to  find  it  out,  or 
the  manliness  to  own  it.  [Entre  nous,  I  always  read 
with  a  mark.] 

We  get  into  a  way  of  thinking  as  if  what  we  call  an 
"  intellectual  man  "  was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  made 
up  of  nine-tenths,  or  thereabouts,  of  book-learning, 
and  one-tenth  himself.  But  even  if  he  is  actually  so 
compounded,  he  need  not  read  much.  Society  is  a 
strong  solution  of  books.  It  draws  the  virtue  out  of 
what  is  best  worth  reading,  as  hot  water  draws  the 
strength  of  tea-leaves.  If  I  were  a  prince,  I  would 
hire  or  buy  a  private  literary  teapot,  in  which  I  would 
steep  all  the  leaves  of  new  books  that  promised  well. 
The  infusion  would  do  for  me  without  the  vegetable 
fibre.  You  understand  me ;  I  would  have  a  person 
whose  sole  business  should  be  to  read  day  and  night, 
and  talk  to  me  whenever  I  wanted  him  to.  I  know 
the  man  I  would  have :  a  quick-witted,  out-spoken 
incisive  fellow  ;  knows  history,  or  at  any  rate  has  a 
shelf-ful  of  books  about  it,  which  he  can  use  handily, 
and  the  same  of  all  useful  arts  and  sciences  ;  knows  all 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  63 

the  common  plots  of  plays  and  novels,  and  the  stock 
company  of  characters  that  are  continually  coming  on 
in  new  costumes  ;  can  give  you  a  criticism  of  an  octavo 
in  an  epithet  and  a  wink,  and  you  can  depend  on  it ; 
cares  for  nobody  except  for  the  virtue  there  is  in  what 
he  says  ;  delights  in  taking  off  big-wigs  and  professional 
gowns,  and  in  the  disembalming  and  unbandaging  of 
all  literary  mummies.  Yet  he  is  as  tender  and  re- 
verential to  all  that  bears  the  mark  of  genius — 
that  is,  of  a  new  influx  of  truth  or  beauty — as  a  nun 
over  her  missal.  In  short,  he  is  one  of  those  men 
that  know  everything  except  how  to  make  a  living. 
Him  would  I  keep  on  the  square  next  my  own  royal 
compartment  on  life's  chess-board.  To  him  I  would 
push  up  another  pawn,  in  the  shape  of  a  comely  and 
wise  young  woman,  whom  he  would  of  course  take — to 
wife.  For  all  contingencies  I  would  liberally  provide. 
In  a  word,  I  would,  in  the  plebeian,  but  expressive 
phrase,  "  put  him  through "  all  the  material  part  of 
life  ;  see  him  sheltered,  warmed,  fed,  button-mended, 
and  all  that,  just  to  be  able  to  lay  on  his  talk  when  I 
liked — with  the  privilege  of  shutting  it  off  at  will. 

A  Club  is  the  next  best  thing  to  this,  strung  like  a 
harp,  with  about  a  dozen  ringing  intelligences,  each 
answering  to  some  chord  of  the  macrocosm.  They  do 
well  to  dine  together  once  in  a  while.  A  dinner-party 
made  up  of  such  elements  is  the  last  triumph  of  civiliza- 
tion over  barbarism.  Nature  and  art  combine  to 
charm  the  senses ;  the  equatorial  zone  of  the  system 
is  soothed  by  well-studied  artifices  ;  the  faculties  are 
off  duty,  and  fall  into  their  natural  attitudes  ;  you  see 
wisdom  in  slippers  and  science  in  a  short  jacket. 

The  whole  course  of  conversation  depends  on  how 
much  you  can  take  for  granted.  Vulgar  chess-players 
have  to  play  their  game  out ;  nothing  short  of  the 
brutality  of  an  actual  checkmate  satisfies  their  dull 
apprehensions.  But  look  at  two  masters  of  that  noble 
game  !  White  stands  well  enough,  so  far  as  you  can 
see  ;  but  Red  says,  Mate  in  six  moves  ; — White  looks 
— nods ; — the  game  is  over.  Just  so  in  talking  with 


64  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

first-rate  men  ;  especially  when  they  are  good-natured 
and  expansive,  as  they  are  apt  to  be  at  table.  That 
blessed  clairvoyance  which  sees  into  things  without 
opening  them — that  glorious  licence,  which,  having 
shut  the  door  and  driven  the  reporter  from  its  key-hole, 
calls  upon  Truth,  majestic  virgin  !  to  get  off  from  her 
pedestal  and  drop  her  academic  poses,  and  take  a 
festive  garland  and  the  vacant  place  on  the  medius 
lectus — that  carnival-shower  of  questions  and  replies 
and  comments,  large  axioms  bowled  over  the  mahogany 
like  bombshells  from  professional  mortars,  and  ex- 
plosive wit  dropping  its  trains  of  many-coloured  fire, 
and  the  mischief-making  rain  of  bon-bons  pelting  every- 
body that  shows  himself — the  picture  of  a  truly  intel- 
lectual banquet  is  one  which  the  old  Divinities  might 
well  have  attempted  to  reproduce  in  their 

"Oh,  oh,  oh  \"  cried  the  young  fellow  whom 

they  call  John — ' '  that  is  from  one  of  your  lectures  ! " 

I  know  it,  I  replied — I  concede  it,  I  confess  it,  I 
proclaim  it. 

"  The  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  them  all ! " 

All  lecturers,  all  professors,  all  schoolmasters,  have 
ruts  and  grooves  in  their  minds  into  which  their  con- 
versation is  perpetually  sliding.  Did  you  never,  in 
riding  through  the  woods  of  a  still  June  evening, 
suddenly  feel  that  you  had  passed  into  a  warm  stratum 
of  air,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  strike  the  chill  layer  of 
atmosphere  beyond  ?  Did  you  never,  in  cleaving  the 
green  waters  of  the  Back  Bay, — where  the  Provincial 
blue-noses  are  in  habit  of  beating  the  "  Metropolitan  " 
boat-clubs, — find  yourself  in  a  tepid  streak,  a  narrow, 
local  gulf-stream,  a  gratuitous  warm-bath  a  little 
underdone,  through  which  your  glistening  shoulders 
soon  flashed,  to  bring  you  back  to  the  cold  realities  of 
full-sea  temperature?  Just  so,  in  talking  with  any  of 
the  characters  above  referred  to,  one  not  unfrequently 
finds  a  sudden  change  in  the  style  of  the  conversation. 
The  lack-lustre  eye,  rayless  as  a  Beacon-street  door- 
plate  in  August,  all  at  once  fills  with  light ;  the  face  flings 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  65 

itself  wide  open  like  the  church-portals  when  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  enter  ;  the  little  man  grows  in  stature 
before  your  eyes,  like  the  small  prisoner  with  hair  on 
end,  beloved  yet  dreaded  of  early  childhood  ;  you  were 
talking  with  a  dwarf  and  an  imbecile — you  have  a  giant 
and  a  trumpet-tongued  angel  before  you  ! — Nothing 
but  a  streak  out  of  a  fifty-dollar  lecture. — As  when, 
at  some  unlooked-for  moment,  the  mighty  fountain 
column  springs  into  the  air  before  the  astonished 
passer-by — silver-footed,  diamond-crowned,  rainbow- 
scarfed — from  the  bosom  of  that  fair  sheet,  sacred  to 
the  hymns  of  quiet  batrachians  at  home,  and  the 
epigrams  of  a  less  amiable  and  less  elevated  order  of 
reptilia  in  other  latitudes. 

Who  was  that  person  that  was  so  abused  some 

time  since  for  saying  that  in  the  conflict  of  two  races 
our  sympathies  naturally  go  with  the  higher?  No 
matter  who  he  was.  Now  look  at  what  is  going  on 
in  India — a  white,  superior  "  Caucasian  "  race,  against 
a  dark-skinned,  inferior,  but  still  ' '  Caucasian  "  race — 
and  where  are  English  and  American  sympathies? 
We  can't  stop  to  settle  all  the  doubtful  questions  ;  all 
we  know  is,  that  the  brute  nature  is  sure  to  come  out 
most  strongly  in  the  lower  race,  and  it  is  the  general 
law  that  the  human  side  of  humanity  should  treat  the 
brutal  side  as  it  does  the  same  nature  in  the  inferior 
animals — tame  it  or  crush  it.  The  India  mail  brings 
stories  of  women  and  children  outraged  and  murdered  ; 
the  royal  stronghold  is  in  the  hands  of  the  babe-killers. 
England  takes  down  the  Map  of  the  World,  which  she 
has  girdled  with  empire,  and  makes  a  correction  thus  : 
DELHI.  Dele.  The  civilized  world  says,  Amen. 

Do  not  think,  because  I  talk  to  you  of  many 

subjects  briefly,  that  I  should  not  find  it  much  lazier 
work  to  take  each  one  of  them  and  dilute  it  down 
to  an  essay.  Borrow  some  of  my  old  college  themes 
and  water  my  remarks  to  suit  yourselves,  as  the 
Homeric  heroes  did  with  their  melas  oinos — that 
black,  sweet,  sirupy  wine  (?)  which  they  used  to  alloy 
with  three  parts  or  more  of  the  flowing  stream. 


56  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

[Could  it  have  been  melasses,  as  Webster  and  his 
provincials  spell  it — or  Molassa's,  as  dear  old  smatter- 
ing, chattering,  would-be-College-President,  Cotton 
Mather,  has  it  in  the  "  Magnalia  "  ?  Ponder  thereon, 
ye  small  antiquaries,  who  make  barn-door-fowl  fights 
of  learning  in  "  Notes  and  Queries  ! " — ye  Historical 
Societies,  in  one  of  whose  venerable  triremes,  I,  too, 
ascend  the  stream  of  time,  while  other  hands  tug  at 
the  oars  ! — ye  Amines  of  parasitical  literature,  who 
pick  up  your  grains  of  native-grown  food  with  a  bodkin, 
having  gorged  upon  less  honest  fare,  until  like  the  great 
minds  Goethe  speaks  of,  you  have  "  made  a  Golgotha" 
of  your  pages  ! — ponder  thereon  !] 

Before  you  go  this  morning,  I  want  to  read 

you  a  copy  of  verses.  You  will  understand  by  the  title 
that  they  are  written  in  an  imaginary  character. 
I  don't  doubt  they  will  fit  some  family-man  well 
enough.  I  send  it  forth  as  "  Oak  Hall "  projects  a 
coat,  on  a  priori  grounds  of  conviction  that  it  will 
suit  somebody.  There  is  no  loftier  illustration  of 
faith  than  this.  It  believes  that  a  soul  has  been  clad 
in  flesh  ;  that  tender  parents  have  fed  and  nurtured  it ; 
that  its  mysterious  compages  or  framework  has  survived 
its  myriad  exposures  and  reached  the  stature  of  maturity ; 
that  the  Man,  now  self-determining,  has  given  in  his 
adhesion  to  the  traditions  and  habits  of  the  race  in 
favour  of  artificial  clothing  ;  that  he  will,  having  all  the 
world  to  choose  from,  select  the  very  locality  where  this 
audacious  generalization  has  been  acted  upon.  It  builds 
a  garment  cut  to  the  pattern  of  an  Idea,  and  trusts  that 
Nature  will  model  a  material  shape  to  fit  it.  There  is 
a  prophecy  in  every  seam,  and  its  pockets  are  full  of 
inspiration. — Now  hear  the  verses. 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  DREAM 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 
I'd  rather  laugh  a  bright-haired  boy 

Than  reign  a  grey-beard  king  ! 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  67 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age  ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 

From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 
Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 

Of  life  all  love  and  fame  ! 

— My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 

And  calmly  smiling,  said, 
"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 

Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 

— Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 

Without  thee,  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind  : 

I'll  take — my — precious — wife  ! 

— The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
"  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too  ! " 

— "  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 

Before  the  change  appears  ? 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 

With  those  dissolving  years  ! " 

Why,  yes  ;  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all ; 

I'll  take — my — girl — and — boys  ! 


68  THE  AUTOCRAT 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen, — 

"  Why  this  will  never  do  ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again. 

And  be  a  father  too  ! " 

And  so  I  laughed, — my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise, — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  grey-haired  boys. 


IV 

I  AM  so  well  pleased  with  my  boarding-house  that  I 
intend  to  remain  there,  perhaps  for  years.  Of  course 
I  shall  have  a  great  many  conversations  to  report, 
and  they  will  necessarily  be  of  different  tone  and  on 
different  subjects.  The  talks  are  like  the  breakfasts, 
— sometimes  dipped  toast,  and  sometimes  dry.  You 
must  take  them  as  they  come.  How  can  I  do  what 
all  these  letters  ask  me  to  ?  No.  1  wants  serious  and 
earnest  thought ;  No.  2  (letter  smells  of  bad  cigars) 
must  have  more  jokes  ;  wants  me  to  tell  a  "  good 
storey"  which  he  has  copied  out  for  me — (I  suppose 
two  letters  before  the  word  ' '  good "  refer  to  some 
Doctor  of  Divinity  who  told  the  story).  No.  3  (in 
female  hand) — more  poetry.  No.  4  wants  something 
that  would  be  of  use  to  a  practical  man  (prahcticat 
mahn  he  probably  pronounces  it).  No.  5  (gilt-edged, 
sweet-scented)  — e '  more  sentiment,"  —  "  heart's  out- 
pourings."  

My  dear  friends,  one  and  all,  I  can  do  nothing 
but  report  such  remarks  as  I  happen  to  have  made 
at  our  breakfast-table.  Their  character  will  depend 
on  many  accidents, — a  good  deal  on  the  particular 
persons  in  the  company  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 
It  so  happens  that  those  which  follow  were  mainly 
intended  for  the  divinity  student  and  the  school- 
mistress ;  though  others,  whom  I  need  not  mention, 
saw  fit  to  interfere,  with  more  or  less  propriety,  in 
the  conversation.  This  is  one  of  my  privileges  as  a 
talker  ;  and  of  course,  if  I  was  not  talking  for  our 
whole  company,  I  don't  expect  all  the  readers  of  this 
periodical  to  be  interested  in  my  notes  of  what  was 
said.  Still,  I  think  there  may  be  a  few  that  will 

59 


60  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

rather  like  this  vein, — possibly  prefer  it  to  a  livelier 
one, — serious  young  men  and  young  women  generally, 

in  life's  roseate  parenthesis  from years  of  age  to 

inclusive. 

Another  privilege  of  talking  is  to  misquote. — Of 
course  it  wasn't  Proserpina  that  actually  cut  the  yellow 
nair, — but  Iris.  (As  I  have  since  told  you)  it  was 
the  former  lady's  regular  business,  but  Dido  had  used 
herself  ungenteelly,  and  Madame  d'Enfer  stood  firm 
on  the  point  of  etiquette.  So  the  bathycolpian  Here 
— Juno,  in  Latin — sent  down  Iris  instead.  But  I  was 
mightily  pleased  to  see  that  one  of  the  gentlemen  that 
do  the  heavy  articles  for  the  celebrated  "  Oceanic 
Miscellany,"  misquoted  Campbell's  line  without  any 
excuse.  "Waft  us  home  the  message"  of  course  it 
ought  to  be.  Will  he  be  duly  grateful  for  the 
correction  ? 

The  more  we  study  the  body  and  the  mind, 

the  more  we  find  both  to  be  governed,  not  by,  but 
according  to  laws,  such  as  we  observe  in  the  larger 
universe.  You  think  you  know  all  about  walking, — 
don't  you,  now?  Well,  how  do  you  suppose  your 
lower  limbs  are  held  to  your  body  ?  They  are  sucked 
up  by  two  cupping  vessels  ("  cotyloid  " — cup-like — 
cavities),  and  held  there  as  long  as  you  live,  and 
longer.  At  any  rate,  you  think  you  move  them  back- 
ward and  forward  at  such  a  rate  as  your  will  de- 
termines, don't  you?  On  the  contrary,  they  swing 
just  as  any  other  pendulums  swing,  at  a  fixed  rate, 
determined  by  their  length.  You  can  alter  this  by 
muscular  power,  as  you  can  take  hold  of  the  pendulum 
of  a  clock  and  make  it  more  faster  or  slower ;  but 
your  ordinary  gait  is  timed  by  the  same  mechanism 
as  the  movements  of  the  solar  system. 

[My  friend,  the  Professor,  told  me  all  this,  referring 
me  to  certain  German  physiologists  by  the  name  of 
Weber  for  proof  of  the  facts,  which,  however,  he  said 
he  had  often  verified.  I  appropriated  it  to  my  own 
use  ;  what  can  one  do  better  than  this,  when  one  has  a 
friend  that  tells  him  anything  worth  remembering  ? 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  bl 

The  Professor  seems  to  think  that  man  and  the 
general  powers  of  the  universe  are  in  partnership. 
Some  one  was  saying  that  it  had  cost  nearly  half  a 
million  to  remove  the  Leviathan  only  so  far  as  they  had 
got  it  already. — Why  said  the  Professor, — they  might 
have  hired  an  EARTHQUAKE  for  less  money  !  ] 

Just  as  we  find  a  mathematical  rule  at  the  bottom 
of  many  of  the  bodily  movements,  just  so  thought  may 
be  supposed  to  have  its  regular  cycles.  Such  or  such 
a  thought  comes  round  periodically,  in  its  turn. 
Accidental  suggestions,  however,  so  far  interfere  with 
the  regular  cycles,  and  we  may  find  them  practically 
beyond  our  power  of  recognition.  Take  all  this  for 
what  it  is  worth,  but  at  any  rate  you  will  agree  that 
there  are  certain  particular  thoughts  that  do  not  come 
up  once  a  day,  nor  once  a  week,  but  that  a  year  would 
hardly  go  round  without  your  having  them  pass 
through  your  mind.  Here  is  one  which  comes  up  at 
intervals  in  this  way.  Some  one  speaks  of  it,  and 
there  is  an  instant  and  eager  smile  of  assent  in  the 
listener  or  listeners.  Yes,  indeed ;  they  have  often 
been  struck  by  it. 

All  at  once  a  conviction  flashes  through  us  that  we 
have  been  in  the  same  precise  circumstances  as  at  the 
present  instant,  once  or  many  times  before. 

Oh  dear,  yes  ! — said  one  of  the  company, — every- 
body has  had  that  feeling. 

The  landlady  didn't  know  anything  about  such 
notions  ;  it  was  an  idee  in  folks'  heads,  she  expected. 

The  schoolmistress  said,  in  a  hesitating  sort  of 
way,  that  she  knew  the  feeling  well,  and  didn't  like  to 
experience  it ;  it  made  her  think  she  was  a  ghost, 
sometimes. 

The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John,  said  he 
knew  all  about  it ;  he  had  just  lighted  a  cheroot  the 
other  day,  when  a  tremendous  conviction  all  at  once 
came  over  him  that  he  had  done  just  the  same  thing 
ever  so  many  times  before.  I  looked  severely  at  him, 
and  his  countenance  immediately  fell — on  the  side  to- 
ward me ;  I  cannot  answer  for  the  other,  for  he  can 


62  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

wink  and  laugh  with  either  half  of  his  face  without 
the  other  half's  knowing  it. 

I  have  noticed — I  went  on  to  say — the  follow- 
ing circumstances  connected  with  these  sudden  im- 
pressions. First,  that  the  condition  which  seems  to 
be  the  duplicate  of  a  former  one  is  often  very  trivial, 
— one  that  might  have  presented  itself  a  hundred 
times.  Secondly,  that  the  impression  is  very  evanes- 
cent, and  that  it  is  rarely,  if  ever,  recalled  by  any 
voluntary  effort,  at  least  after  any  time  has  elapsed. 
Thirdly,  that  there  is  a  disinclination  to  record  the 
circumstances,  and  a  sense  of  incapacity  to  reproduce 
the  state  of  mind  in  words.  Fourthly,  I  have  often 
felt  that  the  duplicate  condition  had  not  only  occurred 
once  before,  but  that  it  was  familiar  and,  as  it  seemed, 
habitual.  Lastly,  I  have  had  the  same  convictions  in 
my  dreams. 

How  do  I  account  for  it?— Why,  there  are  several 
ways  that  I  can  mention,  and  you  may  take  your 
choice.  The  first  is  that  which  the  young  lady  hinted 
at : — that  these  flashes  are  sudden  recollections  of  a 
previous  existence.  I  don't  believe  that ;  for  I  re- 
member a  poor  student  I  used  to  know  told  me  he 
had  such  a  conviction  one  day  when  he  was  blacking 
his  boots,  and  I  can't  think  he  had  ever  lived  in 
another  world  where  they  use  Day  and  Martin. 

Some  think  that  Dr  Wigan's  doctrine  of  the  brain's 
being  a  double  organ,  its  hemispheres  working  to- 
gether like  the  two  eyes,  accounts  for  it.  One  of  the 
hemispheres  hangs  fire,  they  suppose,  and  the  small 
interval  between  the  perceptions  of  the  nimble  and 
the  sluggish  half  seems  an  indefinitely  long  period, 
and  therefore  the  second  perception  appears  to  be  the 
copy  of  another,  ever  so  old.  But  even  allowing 
the  centre  of  perception  to  be  double,  I  can  see  no 
good  reason  for  supposing  this  indefinite  lengthening 
of  the  time,  nor  any  analogy  that  bears  it  out.  It 
seems  to  me  most  likely  that  the  coincidence  of  cir- 
sumstances  is  very  partial,  but  that  we  take  this 
partial  resemblance  for  identity,  as  we  occasionally  do 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  63 

resemblances  of  persons.  A  momentary  posture  of 
circumstances  is  so  far  like  some  preceding  one  that 
we  accept  it  as  exactly  the  same,  just  as  we  accost  a 
stranger  occasionally,  mistaking  him  for  a  friend. 
The  apparent  similarity  may  be  owing,  perhaps,  quite 
as  much  to  the  mental  state  at  the  time,  as  to  the 
outward  circumstances. 

Here  is  another  of  these  curiously  recurring 

remarks.  I  have  said  it,  and  heard  it  many  times, 
and  occasionally  met  with  something  like  it  in  books, 
— somewhere  in  Bulwer's  novels,  J  think,  and  in  one 
of  the  works  of  Mr  Olmsted,  I  know. 

Memory,  imagination,  old  sentiments  and  associa- 
tions, are  more  readily  reached  through  the  sense  of 
SMELL  than  by  almost  any  other  channel. 

Of  course  the  particular  odours  which  act  upon 
each  person's  susceptibilities  differ. — Oh  yes  !  I  will 
tell  you  some  of  mine.  The  smell  of  phosphorus  is 
one  of  them.  During  a  year  or  two  of  adolescence  I 
used  to  be  dabbling  in  chemistry  a  good  deal,  and  as 
about  that  time  I  had  my  little  aspirations  and  passions 
like  another,  some  of  these  things  got  mixed  up  with 
each  other :  orange-coloured  fumes  of  nitrous  acid, 
and  visions  as  bright  and  transient ;  reddening  litmus- 
paper,  and  blushing  cheeks  ; — eheu  ! 

"  Soles  occidere  et  redire  possunt," 

but  there  is   no  reagent  that  will   redden  the  faded 

roses  of  eighteen  hundred  and spare  them  !     But, 

as  I  was  saying,  phosphorus  fires  this  train  of  associa- 
tions in  an  instant ;  its  luminous  vapours  with  their 
penetrating  odour  throw  me  into  a  trance :  it  comes 
to  me  in  a  double  sense  "trailing  clouds  of  glory." 
Only  the  confounded  Vienna  matches,  ohne  phosphor- 
geruch,  have  worn  my  sensibilities  a  little. 

Then  there  is  the  marigold.  When  I  was  of  smallest 
dimensions,  and  wont  to  ride  impacted  between  the 
knees  of  fond  parental  pair,  we  would  sometimes  cross 
the  bridge  to  the  next  village-town  and  stop  opposite 
a  low,  brown,  "  gambrel-roofed "  cottage.  Out  of  it 


64  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

would  come  one  Sally,  sister  of  its  swarthy  tenant, 
swarthy  herself,  shady-lipped,  sad  voiced,  and,  bending 
over  her  flower-bed,  would  gather  a  "  posy,"  as  she 
called  it,  for  the  little  boy.  Sally  lies  in  the  church- 
yard with  a  slab  of  blue  slate  at  her  head,  lichen- 
crusted,  and  leaning  a  little  within  the  last  few  years. 
Cottage,  garden-beds,  posies,  grenadier-like  rows  of 
seedling  onions — stateliest  of  vegetables — all  are  gone, 
but  the  breath  of  a  marigold  brings  them  all  back  to 
me. 

Perhaps  the  herb  everlasting,  the  fragrant  immortelle 
of  our  autumn  fields,  has  the  most  suggestive  odour 
to  me  of  all  those  that  set  me  dreaming.  I  can  hardly 
describe  the  strange  thoughts  and  emotions  that  come 
to  me  as  I  inhale  the  aroma  of  its  pale,  dry,  rustling 
flowers.  A  something  it  has  of  sepulchral  spicery,  as 
if  it  had  been  brought  from  the  core  of  some  great 
pyramid,  where  it  had  laid  on  the  breast  of  a  mummied 
Pharaoh.  Something,  too,  of  immortality  in  the  sad, 
faint  sweetness  lingering  so  long  in  its  lifeless  petals. 
Yet  this  does  not  tell  why  it  fills  my  eyes  with  tears 
and  carries  me  in  blissful  thought  to  the  banks  of 
asphodel  that  border  the  River  of  Life. 

I  should  not  have  talked  so  much  about  these 

personal  susceptibilities,  if  I  had  not  a  remark  to 
make  about  them  which  I  believe  is  a  new  one.  It 
is  this.  There  may  be  a  physical  reason  for  the 
strange  connection  between  the  sense  of  smell  and 
the  mind.  The  olfactory  nerve — so  my  friend,  the 
Professor,  tells  me — is  the  only  one  directly  con- 
nected with  the  hemispheres  of  the  brain,  the  parts  in 
which,  as  we  have  every  reason  to  believe,  the  intel- 
lectual processes  are  performed.  To  speak  more  truly, 
the  olfactory  "nerve"  is  not  a  nerve  at  all,  he  says, 
but  a  part  of  the  brain,  in  intimate  connection  with  its 
anterior  lobes.  Whether  this  anatomical  arrangement 
is  at  the  bottom  of  the  facts  I  have  mentioned  I  will 
not  decide,  but  it  is  curious  enough  to  be  worth  re- 
membering. Contrast  the  sense  of  taste,  as  a  source 
of  suggestive  impressions,  with  that  of  smell.  Now 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  66 

the  Professor  assures  me  that  you  will  find  the  iierve 
of  taste  has  no  immediate  connection  with  the  brain 
proper,  but  only  with  the  prolongation  of  the  spinal 
cord. 

[The  old  gentleman  opposite  did  not  pay  much 
attention,  I  think,  to  this  hypothesis  of  mine.  But 
while  I  was  speaking  about  the  sense  of  smell  he 
nestled  about  in  his  seat,  and  presently  succeeded  in 
getting  out  a  large  red  bandanna  handkerchief.  Then 
he  lurched  a  little  to  the  other  side,  and  after  much 
tribulation  at  last  extricated  an  ample  round  snuff- 
box. I  looked  as  he  opened  it  and  felt  for  the  wonted 
pugil — moist  rappee,  and  a  Tonka-bean  lying  therein. 
I  made  the  manual  sign  understood  of  all  mankind  that 
use  the  precious  dust,  and  presently  my  brain,  too, 

responded  to  the  long  unused  stimulus. Oh  boys 

that  were, — actual  papas  and  possible  grandpapas,  some 
of  you  with  crowns  like  billiard-balls,  some  in  locks 
of  sable  silvered,  and  some  of  silver  sabled, — do  you 
remember,  as  you  doze  over  this,  those  after-dinners 
at  the  Trois  Freres,  when  the  Scotch-plaided  snuff- 
box went  round,  and  the  dry  Lundy-Foot  tickled  its 
way  along  into  our  happy  sensoria?  Then  it  was  that 
the  Chambertin  or  the  Clos  Vougeot  came  in,  slumbering 
in  its  straw  cradle.  And  one  among  you — do  you  re- 
member how  he  would  have  a  bit  of  ice  always  in  his 
Burgundy,  and  sit  tinkling  it  against  the  sides  of  the 
bubble-like  glass,  saying,  that  he  was  hearing  the  cow- 
bells as  he  used  to  hear  them,  when  the  deep-breathing 
kine  came  home  at  twilight  from  the  huckleberry 
pasture,  in  the  old  home  a  thousand  leagues  towards 
the  sunset  ?] 

Ah  me !  what  strains  and  strophes  of  unwritten 
verse  pulsate  through  my  soul  when  I  open  a  certain 
closet  in  the  ancient  house  where  I  was  born  !  On 
its  shelves  used  to  lie  bundles  of  sweet-marjoram  and 
pennyroyal  and  lavender  and  mint  and  catnip  ;  there 
apples  were  stored  until  their  seeds  should  grow  black, 
which  happy  period  there  were  sharp  little  milk-teeth 
always  ready  to  anticipate  ;  there  peaches  lay  in  the 


66  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

dark,  thinking  of  the  sunshine  they  had  lost,  until, 
like  the  hearts  of  saints  that  dream  of  heaven  in  their 
sorrow,  they  grew  fragrant  as  the  breath  of  angels. 
The  odorous  echo  of  a  score  of  dead  summers  lingers 
yet  in  those  dim  recesses. 

Do  I  remember  Byron's  line  about  "  striking 

the  electric  chain  "  ? — To  be  sure  I  do.  I  sometimes 
think  the  less  the  hint  that  stirs  the  automatic 
machinery  of  association,  the  more  easily  this  moves 
us.  What  can  be  more  trivial  than  that  old  story  of 
opening  the  folio  Shakspeare  that  used  to  lie  in  some 
ancient  English  hall,  and  finding  the  flakes  of  Christmas 
pastry  between  its  leaves,  shut  up  in  them  perhaps  a 
hundred  years  ago  ?  And,  lo  !  as  one  looks  on  these 
poor  relics  of  a  bygone  generation,  the  universe  changes 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye ;  old  George  the  Second  is 
back  again,  and  the  elder  Pitt  is  coming  into  power, 
and  General  Wolfe  is  a  fine,  promising  young  man, 
and  over  the  Channel  they  are  pulling  the  Sieur 
Damiens  to  pieces  with  wild  horses,  and  across  the 
Atlantic  the  Indians  are  tomahawking  Hirams  and 
Jonathans  and  Jonases  at  Fort  William  Henry  ;  all 
the  dead  people  who  have  been  in  the  dust  so  long- 
even  to  the  stout-armed  cook  that  made  the  pastry — 
are  alive  again  ;  the  planet  unwinds  a  hundred  of  its 
luminous  coils,  and  the  procession  of  the  equinoxes 
is  retraced  on  the  dial  of  heaven  !  And  all  this  for  a 
bit  of  pie-crust  ! 

I  will  thank  you  for  that  pie, — said  the  pro- 
voking young  fellow  whom  I  have  named  repeatedly. 
He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  and  put  his  hands  to 
his  eyes  as  if  moved, — I  was  thinking, — he  said  in- 
distinctly  

How?     What  is't? — said  our  landlady. 

I  was  thinking, — said  he, — who  was  king  of 

England  when  this  old  pie  was  baked  ;  and  it  made 
me  feel  bad  to  think  how  long  he  must  have  been 
dead. 

[Our  landlady  is  a  decent  body,  poor,  and  a  widow, 
of  course ;  cela  va  sans  dire.  She  told  me  her  story 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  67 

once  ;  it  was  as  if  a  grain  of  corn  that  had  been  ground 
and  bolted  had  tried  to  individualize  itself  by  a  special 
narrative.  There  was  the  wooing  and  the  wedding — 
the  start  in  life — the  disappointment — the  children  she 
had  buried — the  struggle  against  fate — the  dismantling 
of  life,  first  of  its  small  luxuries  and  then  of  its  comforts 
— the  broken  spirits — the  altered  character  of  the  one 
on  whom  she  leaned — and  at  last  the  death  that  came 
and  drew  the  black  curtain  between  her  and  all  her 
earthly  hopes. 

I  never  laughed  at  my  landlady  after  she  had  told 
me  her  story,  but  I  often  cried — not  those  pattering 
tears  that  run  off  the  eaves  upon  our  neighbours' 
grounds,  the  stillicidium  of  self-conscious  sentiment, 
but  those  which  steal  noiselessly  through  their  con- 
duits until  they  reach  the  cisterns  lying  round  about 
the  heart — those  tears  that  we  weep  inwardly  with 
unchanging  features  ; — such  I  did  shed  for  her  often 
when  the  imps  of  the  boarding-house  Inferno  tugged 
at  her  soul  with  their  red-hot  pincers.] 

Young  man — I  said — the  pastry  you  speak  lightly 
of  is  not  old,  but  courtesy  to  those  who  labour  to 
serve  us,  especially  if  they  are  of  the  weaker  sex,  is 
very  old,  and  yet  well  worth  retaining.  May  I  re- 
commend to  you  the  following  caution,  as  a  guide, 
whenever  you  are  dealing  with  a  woman,  or  an  artist, 
or  a  poet  r — if  you  are  handling  an  editor  or  politician 
it  is  superfluous  advice.  I  take  it  from  the  back  of 
one  of  those  little  French  toys  which  contain  paste- 
board figures  moved  by  a  small  running  stream  of  fine 
sand  ;  Benjamin  Franklin  will  translate  it  for  you : 
"  Quoiqu'elle  soil  tres  solidement  montee,  il  faut  ne  pas 
BRUTALJSER  la  machine." — I  will  thank  you  for  the  pie, 
if  you  please. 

[I  took  more  of  it  than  was  good  for  me — as  much 
as  85°,  I  should  think, — and  had  an  indigestion  in 
consequence.  While  I  was  suffering  from  it,  I  wrote 
some  sadly  desponding  poems,  and  a  theological 
essay  which  took  a  very  melancholy  view  of  creation. 
When  I  got  better  I  labelled  them  all  "  Pie-crust," 


68  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

and  laid  them  by  as  scare-crows  and  solemn  warnings 
1  have  a  number  of  books  on  my  shelves  that  I  should 
like  to  label  with  some  such  title  ;  but,  as  they  have 
great  names  on  their  title-pages — doctors  of  divinity, 
some  of  them — it  wouldn't  do.] 

-  My  friend,  the  Professor,  whom  I  have  men- 
tioned to  you  once  or  twice,  told  me  yesterday  that 
somebody  had  been  abusing  him  in  some  of  the  journals 
of  his  calling.  I  told  him  that  I  didn't  doubt  he 
deserved  it ;  that  I  hoped  he  did  deserve  a  little  abuse 
occasionally,  and  would  for  a  number  of  years  to  come  ; 
that  nobody  can  do  anything  to  make  his  neighbours 
wiser  or  better  without  being  liable  to  abuse  for  it ; 
especially  that  people  hated  to  have  their  little 
mistakes  made  fun  of,  and  perhaps  he  had  been  doing 
something  of  the  kind. — The  Professor  smiled.  —  Now, 
said  I,  hear  what  I  am  going  to  say.  It  will  not  take 
many  years  to  bring  you  to  the  period  of  life  when 
men,  at  least  the  majority  of  writing  and  talking  men, 
do  nothing  but  praise.  Men,  like  peaches  and  pears, 
grow  sweet  a  little  while  before  they  begin  to  decay. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is — whether  a  spontaneous  change, 
mental  or  bodily,  or  whether  it  is  through  experience 
of  the  thanklessness  of  critical  honesty, — but  it  is  a 
fact,  that  most  writers,  except  sour  and  unsuccessful 
ones,  get  tired  of  finding  fault  at  about  the  time  when 
they  are  beginning  to  grow  old.  As  a  general  thing, 
I  would  not  give  a  great  deal  for  the  fair  words  of  a 
critic,  if  he  is  himself  an  author,  over  fifty  years  of 
age.  At  thirty  we  are  all  trying  to  cut  our  names  in 
big  letters  upon  the  walls  of  this  tenement  of  life ; 
twenty  years  later  we  have  carved  it,  or  shut  up  our 
jackknives.  Then  we  are  ready  to  help  others,  and 
care  less  to  hinder  any,  because  nobody's  elbows  are  in 
our  way.  So  I  am  glad  you  have  a  little  life  left ;  you 
will  be  saccharine  enougn  in  a  few  years. 

Some  of  the  softening  effects  of  advancing  age 

have  struck  me  very  much  in  what  I  have  heard  or 
seen  here  and  elsewhere.  1  just  now  spoke  of  the 
sweetening  process  that  authors  undergo.  Do  you  know 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  69 

that  in  the  gradual  passage  from  maturity  to  helpless- 
ness the  harshest  characters  sometimes  have  a  period 
in  which  they  are  gentle  and  placid  as  young  children  ? 
I  have  heard  it  said,  but  I  cannot  be  sponsor  for  its 
truth,  that  the  famous  chieftain,  Lochiel,  was  rocked 
in  a  cradle  like  a  baby,  in  his  old  age.  An  old  man, 
whose  studies  had  been  of  the  severest  scholastic  kind, 
used  to  love  to  hear  little  nursery-stories  read  over 
and  over  to  him.  One  who  saw  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton in  his  last  years  describes  him  as  very  gentle  in 
his  aspect  and  demeanour.  I  remember  a  person  of 
singularly  stern  and  lofty  bearing  who  became  re- 
markably gracious  and  easy  in  all  his  ways  in  the  latter 
period  of  his  life. 

And  that  leads  me  to  say  that  men  often  remind  me 
of  pears  in  their  way  of  coming  to  maturity.  Some 
are  ripe  at  twenty,  like  human  Jargonelles,  and  must 
be  made  the  most  of,  for  their  day  is  soon  over. 
Some  come  into  their  perfect  condition  late,  like  the 
autumn  kinds,  and  they  last  better  than  the  summer 
fruit.  And  some,  that,  like  the  Winter-Nelis,  have 
been  hard  and  uninviting  until  all  the  rest  have  had 
their  season,  get  their  glow  and  perfume  long  after 
the  frost  and  snow  have  done  their  worst  with  the 
orchards.  Beware  of  rash  criticisms  ;  the  rough  and 
stringent  fruit  you  condemn  may  be  an  autumn  or  a 
winter  pear,  and  that  which  you  picked  up  beneath 
the  same  bough  in  August  may  have  been  only  its 
worm-eaten  windfalls.  Milton  was  a  Saint-Germain 
with  a  graft  of  the  roseate  Early-Catherine.  Rich, 
juicy,  lively,  fragrant,  russet-skinned  old  Chaucer 
was  an  Easter-Beurre  ;  the  buds  of  a  new  summer 
were  swelling  when  he  ripened. 

There  is  no  power  I  envy  so  much — said  the 

divinity-student — as  that  of  seeing  analogies  and 
making  comparisons.  I  don't  understand  how  it  is 
that  some  minds  are  continually  coupling  thoughts  or 
objects  that  seem  not  in  the  least  related  to  each 
other,  until  all  at  once  they  are  put  in  a  certain  light, 
and  you  wonder  that  you  did  not  always  see  that  they 


70  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

were  as  like  as  a  pair  of  twins.  It  appears  to  me  a 
sort  of  miraculous  gift. 

[He  is  rather  a  nice  young  man,  and  I  think  has  an 
appreciation  of  the  higher  mental  qualities  remarkable 
for  one  of  his  years  and  training.  I  try  his  head 
occasionally  as  housewives  try  eggs,  give  it  an  in- 
tellectual shake,  and  hold  it  up  to  the  light,  so  to 
speak,  to  see  if  it  has  life  in  it,  actual  or  potential,  or 
only  contains  lifeless  albumen.] 

You  call  it  miraculous,  I  replied, — tossing  the  ex- 
pression with  my  facial  eminence  a  little  smartly,  I 
fear.  Two  men  are  walking  by  the  polyphloesboean 
ocean,  one  of  them  having  a  small  tin  cup  with  which 
he  can  scoop  up  a  gill  of  sea  water  when  he  will, 
and  the  other  nothing  but  his  hands,  which  will 
hardly  hold  water  at  all, — and  you  call  the  tin  cup  a 
miraculous  possession !  It  is  the  ocean  that  is  a 
miracle,  my  infant  apostle  !  Nothing  is  clearer  than 
that  all  things  are  in  all  things,  and  that  just  accord- 
ing to  the  intensity  and  extension  of  our  mental  being 
we  shall  see  the  many  in  the  one  and  the  one  in  the 
many.  Did  Sir  Isaac  think  what  he  was  saying  when 
he  made  his  speech  about  the  ocean,  the  child  and  the 
pebbles,  you  know  ?  Did  he  mean  to  speak  slightingly 
of  a  pebble  ? — of  a  spherical  solid  which  stood  sentinel 
over  its  compartment  of  space  before  the  stone  that 
became  the  pyramids  had  grown  solid,  and  has  watched 
it  until  now  ! — a  body  which  knows  all  the  currents  of 
force  that  traverse  the  globe  ;  which  holds  by  invisible 
threads  to  the  ring  of  Saturn  and  the  belt  of  Orion  ! — 
a  body  from  the  contemplation  of  which  an  archangel 
could  infer  the  entire  inorganic  universe  as  the  simplest 
of  corollaries  ! — a  throne  of  the  all-pervading  Deity, 
who  has  guided  its  every  atom  since  the  rosary  of 
heaven  was  strung  with  beaded  stars  ! 

So — to  return  to  our  walk  by  the  ocean — if  all  that 
poetry  has  dreamed,  all  that  insanity  has  raved,  all 
that  maddening  narcotics  have  driven  through  the 
brains  of  men,  or  smothered  passion  nursed  in  the 
fancies  of  women — if  the  dreams  of  colleges  and  con- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  71 

vents  and  boarding-schools — if  every  human  feeling 
that  sighs,  or  smiles,  or  curses,  or  shrieks,  or  groans, 
should  bring  all  their  innumerable  images,  such  as 
come  with  every  hurried  heart-beat,  the  epic  which 
held  them  all,  though  its  letters  filled  the  zodiac, 
would  be  but  a  cupful  to  the  ocean  of  similitudes  and 
analogies  that  rolls  through  the  universe. 

[The  divinity-student  honoured  himself  by  the  way 
in  which  he  received  this.  He  did  not  swallow  it  at 
once,  neither  did  he  reject  it ;  but  he  took  it  as  a 
pickerel  takes  the  bait,  and  carries  it  off  with  him  to 
his  hole  (in  the  fourth  storey)  to  deal  with  at  his 
leisure.] 

Here  is  another  remark  made  for  his  especial 

benefit.  There  is  a  natural  tendency  in  many  persons 
to  run  their  adjectives  together  in  triads,  as  I  have 
heard  them  called, — thus :  He  was  honourable, 
courteous,  and  brave  ;  she  was  graceful,  pleasing,  and 
virtuous.  Dr  Johnson  is  famous  for  this  :  I  think  it 
was  Bulwer  who  said  you  could  separate  a  paper  in 
the  "  Rambler "  into  three  distinct  essays.  Many  of 
our  writers  show  the  same  tendency  ;  my  friend,  the 
Professor,  especially.  Some  think  it  is  in  humble 
imitation  of  Johnson,  some  that  it  is  for  the  sake  of 
the  stately  sound  only.  I  don't  think  they  get  to  the 
bottom  of  it.  It  is,  I  suspect,  an  instinctive  and 
voluntary  effort  of  the  mind  to  present  a  thought  or 
image  with  the  three  dimensions  that  belong  to  every 
solid, — an  unconscious  handling  of  an  idea  as  if  it 
had  length,  breadth,  and  thickness.  It  is  a  great 
deal  easier  to  say  this  than  to  prove  it,  and  a  great 
deal  easier  to  dispute  it  than  to  disprove  it.  But 
mind  this :  the  more  we  observe  and  study,  the  wider 
we  find  the  range  of  the  automatic  and  instinctive 
principles  in  body,  mind,  and  morals,  and  the  narrower 
the  limits  of  the  self-determining  conscious  movement. 

I  have  often  seen  pianoforte-players  and  singers 

make  such  strange  motions  over  their  instruments  or 
song-books  that  I  wanted  to  laugh  at  them.  "  Where 
did  our  friends  pick  up  all  these  fine  ecstatic  airs  ? " 


72  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

I  would  say  to  myself.  Then  I  would  remember  My 
Lady  in  "  Marriage  a  la  Mode,"  and  amuse  myself 
with  thinking  how  affectation  was  the  same  thing  in 
Hogarth's  time  and  in  our  own.  But  one  day  1 
bought  me  a  canary  bird  and  hung  him  up  in  a  cage  at 
my  window.  By-and-by  he  found  himself  at  home, 
and  began  to  pipe  his  little  tunes  ;  and  there  he  was, 
sure  enough,  swimming  and  waving  about,  with  all 
the  droopings  and  liftings  and  languishing  side-turnings 
of  the  head  that  I  had  laughed  at.  And  now  I  should 
like  to  ask,  WHO  taught  him  all  this? — and  me, 
through  him,  that  the  foolish  head  was  not  the  one 
swinging  itself  from  side  to  side  and  bowing  and 
nodding  over  the  music,  but  that  other  which  was 
passing  its  shallow  and  self-satisfied  judgment  on  a 
creature  made  of  finer  clay  than  the  frame  which 
carried  that  same  head  upon  its  shoulders  ? 

Do  you  want  an  image  of  the  human  will,  or  of 

self-determining  principle,  as  compared  with  its  pre- 
arranged and  impassable  restrictions?  A  drop  of 
water  imprisoned  in  a  crystal.  You  may  see  such  a 
one  in  any  mineralogical  collection.  One  little  fluid 
particle  in  the  crystalline  prism  of  the  solid  universe  ! 

Weaken  moral  obligations  ?  No,  not  weaken, 

but  define  them.  When  I  preach  that  sermon  I  spoke 
of  the  other  day,  I  shall  have  to  lay  down  some 
principles  not  fully  recognised  in  some  of  your  text- 
books. 

I  should  have  to  begin  with  one  most  formidable 
preliminary.  You  saw  an  article  the  other  day  in  one 
of  the  journals,  perhaps,  in  which  some  old  doctor  or 
other  said  quietly  that  patients  were  very  apt  to  be 
fools  and  cowards.  But  a  great  many  of  the  clergy- 
man's patients  are  not  only  fools  and  cowards,  but  also 
liars. 

[Immense  sensation  at  the  table.  Sudden  retire- 
ment of  the  angular  female  in  oxidated  bombazine. 
Movement  of  adhesion,  as  they  say  in  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies,  on  the  part  of  the  young  fellow  they  call 
John.  Falling  of  the  old-gentleman-opposite's  lower 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  73 

jaw — (gravitation  is  beginning  to  get  the  better  of 
him).  Our  landlady,  to  Benjamin  Franklin,  briskly — 
Go  to  school  right  off,  there's  a  good  boy  !  School- 
mistress curious,  takes  a  quick  glance  at  divinity- 
student.  Divinity-student  slightly  flushed  draws  his 
shoulders  back  a  little,  as  if  a  big  falsehood — or  truth 
— had  hit  him  in  the  forehead.  Myself  calm.  ] 

I  should  not  make  such  a  speech  as  that,  you 

know,  without  having  pretty  substantial  endorsers  to  fall 
back  upon,  in  case  my  credit  should  be  disputed.  Will 
you  run  upstairs,  Benjamin  Franklin  (for  B.  F.  had 
not  gone  right  off,  of  course),  and  bring  down  a  small 
volume  from  the  left  upper  corner  of  the  righthand 
shelves  ? 

[Look  at  the  precious  little,  black,  ribbed-backed, 
clean  -  typed,  vellum  -  papered  32mo.  "  DESIDEBII 
ERASMI  COLLOQUIA.  Amstelodami.  Typis  Ludovici 
Elzevirii.  1650."  Various  names  written  on  title- 
page.  Most  conspicuous  this  :  "  Gul.  Cookeson  E. 
Coll.  Omn.  Anim.  1725.  Oxon." 

O  William  Cookeson,  of  All  Soul's   College, 

Oxford — then  writing  as  I  now  write,  now  in  the  dust, 
where  I  shall  lie — is  this  line  all  that  remains  to  thee 
of  earthly  remembrance  ?  Thy  name  is  at  least  once 
more  spoken  by  living  men  ;  is  it  a  pleasure  to  thee  ? 
Thou  shalt  share  with  me  my  little  draught  of  immor- 
tality— its  week,  its  month,  its  year — whatever  it  may 
be,  and  then  we  will  go  together  into  the  solemn 
archives  of  Oblivion's  Uncatalogued  Library !  ] 

If  you  think  I  have  used  rather  strong  lan- 
guage, I  shall  have  to  read  something  to  you  out  of 
the  book  of  this  keen  and  witty  scholar,  the  great 
Erasmus — who  "  laid  the  egg  of  the  Reformation 
which  Luther  hatched."  Oh,  you  never  read  his 
Naufraghim,  or  "  Shipwreck,"  did  you  ?  Of  course 
not :  for  if  you  had  I  don't  think  you  would  have 
given  me  credit — or  discredit — for  entire  originality 
in  that  speech  of  mine.  That  men  are  cowards  in 
the  contemplation  of  futurity  he  illustrates  by  the 
extraordinary  antics  of  many  on  board  the  sinking 


74  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

vessel ;  that  they  are  fools,  by  their  praying  to  the 
sea,  and  making  promises  to  bits  of  wood  from  the 
true  cross,  and  all  manner  of  similar  nonsense  ;  that 
they  are  fools,  cowards,  and  liars  all  at  once  by  this 
story  (I  will  put  it  into  rough  English  for  you)  :  "  I 
couldn't  help  laughing  to  hear  one  fellow  bawling  out, 
so  that  he  might  be  sure  to  be  heard,  a  promise  to 
St  Christopher  of  Paris — the  monstrous  statue  in  the 
great  church  there — that  he  would  give  him  a  wax 
taper  as  big  as  himself.  '  Mind  what  you  promise  ! ' 
said  an  acquaintance  that  stood  near  him,  poking  him 
with  his  elbow ;  '  you  couldn't  pay  for  it,  if  you  sold 
all  your  things  at  auction.'  '  Hold  your  tongue,  you 
donkey  ! '  said  the  fellow  —  but  softly,  so  that  St 
Christopher  should  not  hear  him — '  do  you  think  I'm 
in  earnest?  If  I  once  get  my  foot  on  dry  ground 
catch  me  giving  him  so  much  as  a  tallow  candle  ! ' ' 

Now,  therefore,  remembering  that  those  who  have 
been  loudest  in  their  talk  about  the  great  subject  of 
which  we  were  speaking,  have  not  necessarily  been 
wise,  brave,  and  true  men,  but,  on  the  contrary,  have 
very  often  been  wanting  in  one  or  two  or  all  of  the 
qualities  these  words  imply,  I  should  expect  to  ilnd 
a  good  many  doctrines  current  in  the  schools  which 
I  should  be  obliged  to  call  foolish,  cowardly,  and 
false. 

So  you  would  abuse  other  people's  beliefs,  sir, 

and  yet  not  tell  us  your  own  creed  ! — said  the  divinity- 
student,  colouring  up,  with  a  spirit  for  which  I  liked 
him  all  the  better. 

I  have  a  creed, — I  replied  ; — none  better,  and 

none  shorter.  It  is  told  in  two  words, — the  two  first 
of  the  Paternoster.  And  when  I  say  these  words  I 
mean  them.  And  when  I  compared  the  human  will  to 
a  drop  in  a  crystal,  and  said  I  meant  to  define  moral 
obligations,  and  not  weaken  them,  this  was  what  I 
intended  to  express  :  that  the  fluent,  self-determining 
power  of  human  beings  is  a  very  strictly  limited 
agency  in  the  universe.  The  chief  planes  of  its 
enclosing  solid  are,  of  course,  organization,  educa- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  75 

tion,  condition.  Organization  may  reduce  the  power 
of  the  will  to  nothing,  as  in  some  idiots  ;  and  from 
this  zero  the  scale  mounts  upwards  by  slight  grada- 
tions. Education  is  only  second  to  nature.  Imagine 
all  the  infants  born  this  year  in  Boston  and  Timbuctoo 
to  change  places  !  Condition  does  less,  but  "  Give 
me  neither  poverty  nor  riches "  was  the  prayer  of 
Agur,  and  with  good  reason.  If  there  is  any  improve- 
ment in  modern  theology  it  is  in  getting  out  of  the 
region  of  pure  abstractions  and  taking  these  every-day 
working  forces  into  account.  The  great  theological 
question  now  heaving  and  throbbing  in  the  minds  of 
Christian  men  is  this  : — 

No,  I  won't  talk  about  these  things  now.  My 
remarks  might  be  repeated,  and  it  would  give  my 
friends  pain  to  see  with  what  personal  incivilities  I 
should  be  visited.  Besides,  what  business  has  a  mere 
boarder  to  be  talking  about  such  things  at  a  breakfast- 
table?  Let  him  make  puns.  To  be  sure,  he  was 
brought  up  among  the  Christian  fathers,  and  learned 
his  alphabet  out  of  a  quarto  "  Concilium  Tridentinum." 
He  has  also  heard  many  thousand  theological  lectures 
by  men  of  various  denominations  ;  and  it  is  not  at  all 
to  the  credit  of  these  teachers  if  he  is  not  fit  by  this 
time  to  express  an  opinion  on  theological  matters. 

I  know  well  enough  that  there  are  some  of  you 
who  had  a  great  deal  rather  see  me  stand  on  my  head 
than  use  it  for  any  purpose  of  thought.  Does  not  my 
friend,  the  Professor,  receive  at  least  two  letters  a 

week,  requesting  him  to 

., — on  the  strength  of  some  youthful  antic 
of  his,  which,  no  doubt,  authorizes  the  intelligent 
constituency  of  autograph-hunters  to  address  him  as  a 
harlequin  ? 

Well,  I  can't  be  savage  with  you  for  wanting 

to  laugh,  and  I  like  to  make  you  laugh  well  enough 
when  I  can.  But  then  observe  this :  if  the  sense  of 
the  ridiculous  is  one  side  of  an  impressible  nature,  it 
is  very  well ;  but  if  that  is  all  there  is  in  a  man,  he 
had  better  have  been  an  ape  at  once,  and  so  have  stood 


76  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

at  the  head  of  his  profession.  Laughter  and  tears  are 
meant  to  turn  the  wheels  of  the  same  machinery  of 
sensibility ;  one  is  wind-power,  and  the  other  water- 
power  ;  that  is  all.  I  have  often  heard  the  Professor 
talk  about  hysterics  as  being  Nature's  cleverest  illus- 
tration of  the  reciprocal  convertibility  of  the  two  states 
of  which  these  acts  are  the  manifestations  ;  but  you 
may  see  it  every  day  in  children  ;  and  if  you  want  to 
choke  with  stifled  tears  at  sight  of  the  transition,  as  it 
shows  itself  in  older  years,  go  and  see  Mr  Blake  play 
Jesse  Rural. 

It  is  a  very  dangerous  thing  for  a  literary  man  to 
indulge  his  love  for  the  ridiculous.  People  laugh  with 
him  just  so  long  as  he  amuses  them  ;  but  if  he  at- 
tempts to  be  serious,  they  must  still  have  their  laugh, 
and  so  they  laugh  at  him.  There  is,  in  addition, 
however,  a  deeper  reason  for  this  than  would  at  first 
appear.  Do  you  know  that  you  feel  a  little  superior 
to  every  man  who  makes  you  laugh,  whether  by 
making  faces  or  verses?  Are  you  aware  that  you 
have  a  pleasant  sense  of  patronizing  him,  when  you 
condescend  so  far  as  to  let  him  turn  somersets,  literal 
or  literary,  for  your  royal  delight  ?  Now  if  a  man  can 
only  be  allowed  to  stand  on  a  dais  or  raised  platform, 
and  look  down  on  his  neighbour  who  is  exerting  his 
talent  for  him,  Oh,  it  is  all  right ! — first-rate  per- 
formance ! — and  all  the  rest  of  the  fine  phrases.  But 
if  all  at  once  the  performer  asks  the  gentleman  to 
come  upon  the  floor,  and,  stepping  upon  the  platform, 
begins  to  talk  down  at  him, — ah,  that  wasn't  in  the 
programme  ! 

I  have  never  forgotten  what  happened  when  Sydney 
Smith — who,  as  everybody  knows,  was  an  exceedingly 
sensible  man,  and  a  gentleman,  every  inch  of  him — 
ventured  to  preach  a  sermon  on  the  Duties  of  Royalty. 
The  "  Quarterly,"  "  so  savage  and  tartarly,"  came  down 
upon  him  in  the  most  contemptuous  style,  as  "  a  joker 
of  jokes,"  a  "  diner-out  of  the  first  water,"  in  one  of 
his  own  phrases  ;  sneering  at  him,  insulting  him,  as 
nothing  but  a  toady  of  a  court,  sneaking  behind  the 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  77 

anonymous,  would  ever  have  been  mean  enough  to 
do  to  a  man  of  his  position  and  genius,  or  to  any 
decent  person  even.  If  I  were  giving  advice  to  a 
young  fellow  of  talent,  with  two  or  three  facets  to  his 
mind,  I  would  tell  him  by  all  means  to  keep  his  wit 
in  the  background  until  after  he  had  made  a  reputa- 
tion by  his  more  solid  qualities.  And  so  to  an  actor : 
Hamlet  first,  and  Bob  Logic  afterwards,  if  you  like ; 
but  don't  think,  as  they  say  poor  Listen  used  to,  that 
people  will  be  ready  to  allow  that  you  can  do  anything 
great  with  Macbeth's  dagger  after  flourishing  about 
with  Paul  Pry's  umbrella.  Do  you  know,  too,  that 
the  majority  of  men  look  upon  all  who  challenge 
their  attention, — for  a  while  at  least, — as  beggars 
and  nuisances  ?  They  always  try  to  get  off  as  cheaply 
as  they  can  ;  and  the  cheapest  of  all  things  they  can 
give  a  literary  man — pardon  the  forlorn  pleasantry  ! — 
is  the  funny-bone.  That  is  all  very  well  so  far  as  it 
goes,  but  satisfies  no  man,  and  makes  a  good  many 
angry,  as  I  told  you  on  a  former  occasion. 

Oh,  indeed,  no  ! — I  am  not  ashamed  to  make 

you  laugh  occasionally.  I  think  I  could  read  you 
something  I  have  in  my  desk  which  would  probably 
make  you  smile.  Perhaps  I  will  read  it  one  of  these 
days,  if  you  are  patient  with  me  when  I  am  senti- 
mental and  reflective  ;  not  just  now.  The  ludicrous 
has  its  place  in  the  universe :  it  is  not  a  human 
invention,  but  one  of  the  Divine  ideas,  illustrated  in 
the  practical  jokes  of  kittens  and  monkeys  long  before 
Aristophanes  or  Shakspeare.  How  curious  it  is  that 
we  always  consider  solemnity  and  the  absence  of  all 
gay  surprises  and  encounter  of  wits  as  essential  to  the 
idea  of  the  future  life  of  those  whom  we  thus  deprive 
of  half  their  faculties  and  then  called  blessed!  There 
are  not  a  few  who,  even  in  this  life,  seem  to  be  pre- 
paring themselves  for  that  smileless  eternity  to  which 
they  look  forward,  by  banishing  all  gaiety  from  their 
hearts  and  all  joyousness  from  their  countenances. 
I  meet  one  such  in  the  street  not  unfrequently,  a 
person  of  intelligence  and  education,  but  who  gives 


78  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

me  (and  all  that  he  passes)  such  a  rayless  and  chilling 
look  of  recognition, — something  as  if  he  were  one  of 
Heaven's  assessors,  come  down  to  "doom"  every 
acquaintance  he  met, — that  I  have  sometimes  begun 
to  sneeze  on  the  spot,  and  gone  home  with  a  violent 
cold,  dating  from  that  instant.  I  don't  doubt  he 
would  cut  his  kitten's  tail  off,  if  he  caught  her  play- 
ing with  it.  Please  tell  me,  who  taught  her  to  play 
with  it? 

No,  no  ! — give  me  a  chance  to  talk  to  you,  my 
fellow-boarders,  and  you  need  not  be  afraid  that  I 
shall  have  any  scruples  about  entertaining  you,  if  I 
can  do  it,  as  well  as  giving  you  some  of  my  serious 
thoughts,  and  perhaps  my  sadder  fancies.  I  know 
nothing  in  English  or  any  other  literature  more  ad- 
mirable than  that  sentiment  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne : 
"EVERY  MAN  TRULY  LIVES,  so  LONG  AS  HE  ACTS  HIS 

NATURE,  OR  SOME  WAY  MAKES  GOOD  THE  FACULTIES  OF 
HIMSELF. " 

I  find  the  great  thing  in  this  world  is,  not  so  much 
where  we  stand,  as  in  what  direction  we  are  moving. 
To  reach  the  port  of  heaven  we  must  sail  sometimes 
with  the  wind  and  sometimes  against  it, — but  we  must 
sail,  and  not  drift,  nor  lie  at  anchor.  There  is  one 
very  sad  thing  in  old  friendships,  to  every  mind  that 
is  really  moving  onward.  It  is  this :  that  one  cannot 
help  using  his  early  friends  as  the  seamen  uses  the 
log — to  mark  his  progress.  Every  now  and  then  we 
throw  an  old  schoolmate  over  the  stern  with  a  string 
of  thought  tied  to  him,  and  look — I  am  afraid  with  a 
kind  of  luxurious  and  sanctimonious  compassion — to 
see  the  rate  at  which  the  string  reels  off,  while  he  lies 
there  bobbing  up  and  down,  poor  fellow  !  and  we  are 
dashing  along  with  the  white  foam  and  bright  sparkle 
at  our  bows  ; — the  ruffled  bosom  of  prosperity  and  pro- 
gress, with  a  sprig  of  diamonds  stuck  in  it !  But  this 
is  only  the  sentimental  side  of  the  matter  ;  for  grow  we 
must,  if  we  outgrow  all  that  we  love. 

Don't  misunderstand  that  metaphor  of  heaving 
the  log,  I  beg  you.  It  is  merely  a  smart  way  of  saying 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  79 

that  we  cannot  avoid  measuring  our  rate  of  movement 
by  those  with  whom  we  have  long  been  in  the  habit 
of  comparing  ourselves  ;  and  when  they  once  become 
stationary  we  can  get  our  reckoning  from  them  with 
painful  accuracy.  We  see  just  what  we  were  when 
they  were  our  peers,  and  can  strike  the  balance  be- 
tween that  and  whatever  we  may  feel  ourselves  to  be 
now.  No  doubt  we  may  sometimes  be  mistaken. 
If  we  change  our  last  simile  to  that  very  old  and 
familiar  one  of  a  fleet  leaving  the  harbour  and  sailing 
in  company  for  some  distant  region,  we  can  get  what 
we  want  out  of  it.  There  is  one  of  our  companions  : — 
her  streamers  were  torn  into  rags  before  she  had  got 
into  the  open  sea,  then  by-and-by  her  sails  blew  out 
of  the  ropes  one  after  another,  the  waves  swept  her 
deck,  and  as  night  came  on  we  left  her  a  seeming 
wreck,  as  we  flew  under  our  pyramid  of  canvas.  But 
lo  !  at  dawn  she  is  still  in  sight, — it  may  be  in  advance 
of  us.  Some  deep  ocean-current  has  been  moving 
her  on,  strong,  but  silent, — yes,  stronger  than  these 
noisy  winds  that  puff  our  sails  until  they  are  swollen 
as  the  cheeks  of  jubilant  cherubim.  And  when  at 
last  the  black  steam-tug  with  the  skeleton  arms,  which 
comes  out  of  the  mist  sooner  or  later  and  takes  us  all 
in  tow,  grapples  her  and  goes  off  panting  and  groaning 
with  her,  it  is  to  that  harbour  where  all  wrecks  are 
refitted,  and  where,  alas  !  we,  towering  in  our  pride, 
may  never  come. 

So  you  will  not  think  I  mean  to  speak  lightly  of  old 
friendships,  because  we  cannot  help  instituting  com- 
parisons between  our  present  and  former  selves  by  the 
aid  of  those  who  were  what  we  were,  but  are  not  what 
we  are.  Nothing  strikes  one  more,  in  the  race  of  life, 
than  to  see  how  many  give  out  in  the  first  half  of  the 
course.  "  Commencement  day  "  always  reminds  me 
of  the  start  for  the  "  Derby,"  when  the  beautiful  high- 
bred three-year-olds  of  the  season  are  brought  up  for 
trial.  That  day  is  the  start,  and  life  is  the  race. 
Here  we  are  at  Cambridge,  and  a  class  is  just 
" graduating."  Poor  Harry!  he  was  to  have  been 


80  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

there  too,  but  he  has  paid  forfeit ;  step  out  here  into 
the  grass  back  of  the  church  ;  ah  !  there  it  is  : — 

"  HUNC    LAPIDEM    POSUERUNT 
SOCII    MffiRENTES." 

But  this  is  the  start,  and  here  they  are, — coats  bright 
as  silk,  and  maiies  as  smooth  as  eau  lustrale  can  make 
them.  Some  of  the  best  of  the  colts  are  pranced 
round,  a  few  minutes  each,  to  show  their  paces. 
What  is  that  old  gentleman  crying  about?  and  the 
old  lady  by  him,  and  the  three  girls,  what  are  they  all 
covering  their  eyes  for?  Oh,  that  is  their  colt  which 
has  just  been  trotted  up  on  the  stage.  Do  they  really 
think  those  little  thin  legs  can  do  anything  in  such  a 
slashing  sweepstakes  as  is  coming  off  in  these  next 
forty  years?  Oh,  this  terrible  gift  of  second-sight 
that  comes  to  some  of  us  when  we  begin  to  look 
through  the  silvered  rings  of  the  arcus  senilis  I 

Ten  years  gone.  First  turn  in  the  race.  A  few 
broken  down  ;  two  or  three  bolted.  Several  show  in 
advance  of  the  ruck.  Cassock,  a  black  colt,  seems  to 
be  ahead  of  the  rest ;  those  black  colts  commonly  get 
the  start,  I  have  noticed,  of  the  others,  in  the  first 
quarter.  Meteor  has  pulled  up. 

Twenty  years.  Second  corner  turned.  Casseck  has 
dropped  from  the  front,  and  Judex,  an  iron-grey, 
has  the  lead.  But  look  !  how  they  have  thinned  out  ! 
Down  flat, — five, — six, — how  many  ?  They  lie  still 
enough  !  they  will  not  get  up  again  in  this  race,  be 
very  sure!  And  the  rest  of  them,  what  a  "tailing 
off"  !  Anybody  can  see  who  is  going  to  win, — perhaps. 

Thirty  years.  Third  corner  turned.  Dives,  bright 
sorrel,  ridden  by  the  fellow  in  a  yellow  jacket,  begins 
to  make  play  fast ;  is  getting  to  be  the  favourite  with 
many.  But  who  is  that  other  one  that  has  been 
lengthening  his  stride  from  the  first,  and  now  shows 
close  up  to  the  front?  Don't  you  remember  the  quiet 
brown  colt  Asteroid,  with  the  star  in  his  forehead? 
That  is  he  ;  he  is  one  of  the  sort  that  lasts  ;  look  out 
for  him  !  The  black  "  colt,"  as  we  used  to  call  him, 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  81 

is  in  the  background,  taking  it  easily  in  a  gentle  trot. 
There  is  one  they  used  to  call  the  Filly,  on  account 
of  a  certain  feminine  air  he  had  ;  well  up,  you  see  ;  the 
Filly  is  not  to  be  despised,  my  boy  ! 

Forty  years.  More  dropping  off, — but  places  much 
as  before. 

Fifty  years.  Race  over.  All  that  are  on  the  course 
are  coming  in  at  a  walk  ;  no  more  running.  Who 
is  ahead  ?  Ahead  ?  What !  and  the  winning-post  a 
slab  of  white  or  grey  stone  standing  out  from  that  turf 
where  there  is  no  more  jockeying  or  straining  for 
victory  !  Well,  the  world  marks  their  places  in  its 
betting-book  ;  but  be  sure  that  these  matter  very  little, 
if  they  have  run  as  well  as  they  knew  how  ! 

Did  I  not  say  to  you  a  little  while  ago  that  the 

universe  swam  in  an  ocean  of  similitudes  and  analogies  ? 
I  will  not  quote  Cowley,  or  Burns,  or  Wordsworth, 
just  now,  to  show  you  what  thoughts  were  suggested 
to  them  by  the  simplest  natural  object,  such  as  a  flower 
or  a  leaf ;  but  I  will  read  you  a  few  lines,  if  you  do  not 
object,  suggested  by  looking  at  a  section  of  one  of  those 
chambered  shells  to  which  is  given  the  name  of  Pearly 
Nautilus.  We  need  not  trouble  ourselves  about  the 
distinction  between  this  and  the  Paper  Nautilus,  the 
Argonauta  of  the  ancients.  The  name  applied  to  both 
shows  that  each  has  long  been  compared  to  a  ship,  as 
you  may  see  more  fully  in  Webster's  Dictionary,  or  the 
"  Encyclopaedia,"  to  which  he  refers.  If  you  will  look 
into  Roget's  Bridgewater  Treatise,  you  will  find  a 
figure  of  one  of  these  shells,  and  a  section  of  it.  The 
last  will  show  you  the  series  of  enlarging  compartments 
successively  dwelt  in  by  the  animal  that  inhabits  the 
shell,  which  is  built  in  a  widening  spiral.  Can  you 
find  no  lesson  in  this  ? 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 
Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 
The  venturous  bark  that  flings 


82  THE  AUTOCRAT 

On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 


Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn. 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings : — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll  ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea. 


A  LYRIC  conception — my  friend,  the  Poet,  said — hits 
me  like  a  bullet  in  the  forehead.  I  have  often  had 
the  blood  drop  from  my  cheeks  when  it  struck,  and 
felt  that  /  turned  as  white  as  death.  Then  comes 
a  creeping  as  of  centipedes  running  down  the  spine, — 
then  a  gasp  and  a  great  jump  of  the  heart, — then  a 
sudden  flush  and  a  beating  in  the  vessels  of  the  head, — 
then  a  long  sigh, — and  the  poem  is  written. 

It  is  an  impromptu,  I  suppose,  then,  if  you  write  it 
so  suddenly, — I  replied. 

No, — said  he, — far  from  it.  I  said  written,  but  I 
did  not  say  copied.  Every  such  poem  has  a  soul  and 
a  body,  and  it  is  the  body  of  it,  or  the  copy,  that  men 
read  and  publishers  pay  for.  The  soul  of  it  is  born 
in  an  instant  in  the  poet's  soul.  It  comes  to  him  a 
thought,  tangled  in  the  meshes  of  a  few  sweet  words, 
— words  that  have  loved  each  other  from  the  cradle  of 
the  language,  but  have  never  been  wedded  until  now. 
Whether  it  will  ever  fully  embody  itself  in  a  bridal 
train  of  a  dozen  stanzas  or  not  is  uncertain  ;  but  it 
exists  potentially  from  the  instant  that  the  poet  turns 
pale  with  it.  It  is  enough  to  stun  and  scare  anybody, 
to  have  a  hot  thought  come  crashing  into  his  brain, 
and  ploughing  up  those  parallel  ruts  where  the  waggon 
trains  of  common  ideas  were  jogging  along  in  their 
regular  sequences  of  association.  No  wonder  the 
ancients  made  the  poetical  impulse  wholly  external. 
Mrjviv  dtetSe  Oed.  Goddess, — Muse, — divine  afflatus, — 
something  outside  always.  /  never  wrote  any  verses 
worth  reading.  I  can't.  I  am  too  stupid.  If  I  ever 
copied  any  that  were  worth  reading,  I  was  only  a 
medium. 

83 


84  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

[I  was  talking  all  this  time  to  our  boarders,  you 
understand, — telling  them  what  this  poet  told  me. 
The  company  listened  rather  attentively,  I  thought, 
considering  the  literary  character  of  the  remarks.] 

The  old  gentleman  opposite  all  at  once  asked  me  if 
I  ever  read  anything  better  than  Pope's  "  Essay  on 
Man"?  Had  I  ever  perused  M'Fingal?  He  was  fond 
of  poetry  when  he  was  a  boy, — his  mother  taught  him 
to  say  many  little  pieces,  he  remembered  one  beautiful 
hymn  ; — and  the  old  gentleman  began,  in  a  clear,  loud 
voice,  for  his  years, — 

"  The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens," — 

He  stopped,  as  if  startled  by  our  silence,  and  a  faint 
flush  ran  up  beneath  the  thin  white  hairs  that  fell  upon 
his  cheek.  As  I  looked  round,  I  was  reminded  of  a 
show  I  once  saw  at  the  Museum, — the  Sleeping  Beauty, 
I  think  they  called  it.  The  old  man's  sudden  breaking 
out  in  this  way  turned  every  face  towards  him,  and 
each  kept  his  posture  as  if  changed  to  stone.  Our 
Celtic  Bridget,  or  Biddy,  is  not  a  foolish  fat  scullion 
to  burst  out  crying  for  a  sentiment.  She  is  of  the 
serviceable,  red-handed,  broad  -  and  -  high  -  shouldered 
type  ;  one  of  those  imported  female  servants  who  are 
known  in  public  by  their  amorphous  style  of  person, 
their  stoop  forwards,  and  a  headlong  and  as  it  were 
precipitous  walk, — the  waist  plunging  downwards  into 
the  rocking  pelvis  at  every  heavy  footfall.  Bridget, 
constituted  for  action,  not  for  emotion,  was  about  to 
deposit  a  plate  heaped  with  something  upon  the  table, 
when  I  saw  the  coarse  arm  stretched  by  my  shoulder 
arrested, — motionless  as  the  arm  of  a  terra-cotta 
caryatid  ;  she  couldn't  set  the  plate  down  while  the  old 
gentleman  was  speaking ! 

He  was  quite  silent  after  this,  still  wearing  the 
slight  flush  on  his  cheek.  Don't  ever  think  the  poetry 
is  dead  in  an  old  man  because  his  forehead  is  wrinkled, 
or  that  his  manhood  has  left  him  when  his  hand 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  85 

trembles !  If  they  ever  were  there,  they  are  there 
still ! 

By-and-by  we  got  talking  again. Does  a  poet  love 

the  verses  written  through  him,  do  you  think,  sir  ? — 
said  the  divinity-student. 

So  long  as  they  are  warm  from  his  mind,  carry  any 
of  his  animal  heat  about  them,  /  know  he  loves  them, — 
I  answered.  When  they  have  had  time  to  cool,  he  is 
more  indifferent. 

A  good  deal  as  it  is  with  buck-wheat  cakes, — said  the 
young  fellow  whom  they  call  John. 

The  last  words,  only,  reached  the  ear  of  the  economi- 
cally-organized female  in  black  bombazine. Buck- 
wheat is  skerce  and  high, — she  remarked.  [Must  be  a 
poor  relation  sponging  on  our  landlady, — pays  nothing, 
— so  she  must  stand  by  the  guns  and  be  ready  to  repel 
boarders.] 

I  liked  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken,  for  I 
had  some  things  I  wanted  to  say,  and  so,  after  waiting 
a  minute,  I  began  again. — I  don't  think  the  poems  I 
read  you  sometimes  can  be  fairly  appreciated,  given  to 
you  as  they  are  in  the  green  state. 

You  don't  know  what  I  mean  by  the  green 

state  ?  Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you.  Certain  things  are 
good  for  nothing  until  they  have  been  kept  a  long 
while  ;  and  some  are  good  for  nothing  until  they  have 
been  long  kept  and  used.  Of  the  first,  wine  is  the 
illustrious  and  immortal  example.  Of  those  which 
must  be  kept  and  used  I  will  name  three, — meerschaum 
pipes,  violins,  and  poems.  The  meerschaum  is  but  a 
poor  affair  until  it  has  burned  a  thousand  offerings  to 
the  cloud-compelling  deities.  It  comes  to  us  without 
complexion  or  flavour, — born  of  the  sea-foam,  like 
Aphrodite,  but  colourless  as  pallida  Mors  herself.  The 
fire  is  lighted  in  its  central  shrine,  and  gradually  the 
juices  which  the  broad  leaves  of  the  Great  Vegetable 
had  sucked  up  from  an  acre  and  curdled  into  a  drachm 
are  diffused  through  its  thirsting  pores.  First  a  dis- 
coloration, then  a  stain,  and  at  last  a  rich,  glowing, 
umber  tint  spreading  over  the  whole  surface.  Nature 


86  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

true  to  her  old  brown  autumnal  hue,  you  see, — as  true 
in  the  fire  of  the  meerschaum  as  in  the  sunshine  of 
October !  And  then  the  cumulative  wealth  of  its 
fragrant  reminiscences !  he  who  inhales  its  vapours 
takes  a  thousand  whiffs  in  a  single  breath :  and  one 
cannot  touch  it  without  awakening  the  old  joys  that 
hang  around  it  as  the  smell  of  flowers  clings  to  the 
dresses  of  the  daughters  of  the  house  of  Farina  ! 

[Don't  think  I  use  a  meerschaum  myself,  for  /  do 
not,  though  I  have  owned  a  calumet  since  my  child- 
hood, which  from  a  naked  Pict  (of  the  Mohawk  species) 
my  grandsire  won,  together  with  a  tomahawk  and 
beaded  knife-sheath  ;  paying  for  the  lot  with  a  bullet 
mark  on  his  right  cheek.  On  the  maternal  side  I 
inherit  the  loveliest  silver-mounted  tobacco-stopper 
you  ever  saw.  It  is  a  little  box-wood  Triton,  carved 
with  charming  liveliness  and  truth  ;  I  have  often  com- 
pared it  to  a  figure  in  Raphael's  "Triumph  of  Galatea." 
It  came  to  me  in  an  ancient  shagreen  case, — how  old 
it  is  I  do  not  know, — but  it  must  have  been  made 
since  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  time.  If  you  are  curious 
you  shall  see  it  any  day.  Neither  will  I  pretend  that 
I  am  so  unused  to  the  more  perishable  smoking  con- 
trivance that  a  few  whiffs  would  make  me  feel  as  if  I 
lay  in  a  ground-swell  on  the  Bay  of  Biscay.  I  am 
not  unacquainted  with  that  fusiform,  spiral-wound 
bundle  of  chopped  stems  and  miscellaneous  incom- 
bustibles,  the  cigar,  so  called  of  the  shops, — which  to 
"  draw "  asks  the  suction-power  of  a  nurseling  infant 
Hercules,  and  to  relish,  the  leathery  palate  of  an  old 
Silenus.  I  do  not  advise  you,  young  man,  even  if  my 
illustration  strike  your  fancy,  to  consecrate  the  flower 
of  your  life  to  painting  the  bowl  of  a  pipe  ;  for,  let  me 
assure  you,  the  stain  of  a  reverie-breeding  narcotic 
may  strike  deeper  than  you  think  for.  I  have  seen 
the  green  leaf  of  early  promise  grow  brown  before  its 
time  under  such  nicotian  regimen,  and  thought  the 
umbered  meerschaum  was  dearly  bought  at  the  cost  of 
a  brain  enfeebled  and  a  will  enslaved.] 

Violins    too, — the    sweet    old    Amati  ! — the  divine 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  87 

Stradivarius  !  Played  on  by  ancient  maestros  until  the 
bowhand  lost  its  power  and  the  flying  fingers  stiffened. 
Bequeathed  to  the  passionate  young  enthusiast,  who 
made  it  whisper  his  hidden  love,  and  cry  his  inarticu- 
late longings,  and  scream  his  untold  agonies,  and  wail 
his  monotonous  despair.  Passed  from  his  dying  hand 
to  the  cold  virtuoso,  who  let  it  slumber  in  its  case  for 
a  generation,  till,  when  his  hoard  was  broken  up,  it 
came  forth  once  more  and  rode  the  stormy  symphonies 
of  royal  orchestras,  beneath  the  rushing  bow  of  their 
lord  and  leader.  Into  lonely  prisons  with  improvident 
artists  ;  into  convents  from  which  arose,  day  and  night, 
the  holy  hymns  with  which  its  tones  were  blended  ; 
and  back  again  to  orgies  in  which  it  learned  to  howl 
and  laugh  as  if  a  legion  of  devils  were  shut  up  in  it ; 
then  again  to  the  gentle  dilettante  who  calmed  it  down 
with  easy  melodies  until  it  answered  him  softly  as  in 
the  days  of  the  old  maestros.  And  so  given  into  our 
hands,  its  pores  all  full  of  music ;  stained  like  the 
meerschaum,  through  and  through,  with  the  con- 
centrated hue  and  sweetness  of  all  the  harmonies  which 
have  kindled  and  faded  on  its  strings. 

Now  I  tell  you  a  poem  must  be  kept  and  used,  like 
a  meerschaum  or  a  violin.  A  poem  is  just  as  porous 
as  the  meerschaum  ; — the  more  porous  it  is  the  better. 
I  mean  to  say  that  a  genuine  poem  is  capable  of  ab- 
sorbing an  indefinite  amount  of  the  essence  of  our 
own  humanity, — its  tenderness,  its  heroism,  its  regrets, 
its  aspirations, — so  as  to  be  gradually  stained  through 
with  a  divine  secondary  colour  derived  from  ourselves. 
So  you  see  it  must  take  time  to  bring  the  sentiment  of 
a  poem  into  harmony  with  our  nature,  by  staining 
ourselves  through  every  thought  and  image  our  being 
can  penetrate. 

Then  again  as  to  the  mere  music  of  a  new  poem ; 
why,  who  can  expect  anything  more  from  that  than 
from  the  music  of  a  violin  fresh  from  the  maker's 
hands?  Now  you  know  very  well  that  there  are  no 
less  than  fifty-eight  different  pieces  in  a  violin.  These 
pieces  are  strangers  to  each  other,  and  it  takes  a 


88  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

century,  more  or  less,  to  make  them  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted. At  last  they  learn  to  vibrate  in  harmony, 
and  the  instrument  becomes  an  organic  whole,  as  if 
it  were  a  great  seed-capsule  which  had  grown  from  a 
garden  bed  in  Cremona  or  elsewhere.  Besides,  the 
wood  is  juicy  and  full  of  sap  for  fifty  years  or  so, 
but  at  the  end  of  fifty  or  a  hundred  more  gets  tolerably 
dry  and  comparatively  resonant. 

Don't  you  see  that  all  this  is  just  as  true  of  a  poem  ? 
Counting  each  word  as  a  piece,  there  are  more  pieces 
in  an  average  copy  of  verses  than  in  a  violin.  The 
poet  has  forced  all  these  words  together,  and  fastened 
them,  and  they  don't  understand  it  at  first.  But  let 
the  poem  be  repeated  aloud  and  murmured  over  in 
the  mind's  muffled  whisper  often  enough,  and  at 
length  the  parts  become  knit  together  in  such  absolute 
solidarity  that  you  could  not  change  a  syllable  without 
the  whole  world's  crying  out  against  you  for  meddling 
with  the  harmonious  fabric.  Observe,  too,  how  the 
drying  process  takes  place  in  the  stuff  of  a  poem  just  as 
in  that  of  the  violin.  Here  is  a  Tyrolese  fiddle  that  is 
just  coming  to  its  hundredth  birthday, — (Pedro  Klauss, 
Tyroli,  fecit,  1760), — the  sap  is  pretty  well  out  of  it.  And 
here  is  the  song  of  an  old  poet  whom  Neaera  cheated — 

"  Nox  erat,  et  coelo  fulgebat  Luna  sereno 

Inter  miuora  sidera, 

Cum  tu  magnorum  numen  laesura  deorum 
In  verba  jurabas  mea." 

Don't  you  perceive  the  sonorousness  of  these  old  dead 
Latin  phrases  ?  Now  I  tell  you  that  every  word  fresh 
from  the  dictionary  brings  with  it  a  certain  succulence  ; 
and  though  I  cannot  expect  the  sheets  of  the  "  Pacto- 
lian,"  in  which,  as  I  told  you,  I  sometimes  print  my 
verses,  to  get  so  dry  as  the  crisp  papyrus  that  held 
those  words  of  Horatius  Flaccus,  yet  you  may  be  sure, 
that  while  the  sheets  are  damp,  and  while  the  lines 
hold  their  sap,  you  can't  fairly  judge  of  my  perform- 
ances, and  that,  if  made  of  the  true  stuff,  they  will 
ring  better  after  a  while. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  89 

[There  was  silence  for  a  brief  space,  after  my  some- 
what elaborate  exposition  of  these  self-evident  an- 
alogies. Presently  a  person  turned  towards  me — I  do 
not  choose  to  designate  the  individual — and  said  that 
he  rather  expected  my  pieces  had  given  pretty  good 
"  sahtisfahction " — I  had,  up  to  this  moment,  con- 
sidered this  complimentary  phrase  as  sacred  to  the  use 
of  secretaries  of  lyceums,  and,  as  it  has  been  usually 
accompanied  by  a  small  pecuniary  testimonial,  have 
acquired  a  certain  relish  for  this  moderately  tepid  and 
unstimulating  expression  of  enthusiasm.  But  as  a 
reward  for  gratuitous  services,  I  confess  I  thought  it  a 
little  below  that  blood-heat  standard  which  a  man's 
breath  ought  to  have,  whether  silent,  or  vocal  and 
articulate.  I  waited  for  a  favourable  opportunity, 
however,  before  making  the  remarks  which  follow.] 

There  are  single  expressions,  as  I  have  told 

you  already,  that  fix  a  man's  position  for  you  before 
you  have  done  shaking  hands  with  him.  Allow  me 
to  expand  a  little.  There  are  several  things,  very 
slight  in  themselves,  yet  implying  other  things  not 
so  unimportant.  Thus,  your  French  servant  has 
devalise  your  premises  and  got  caught.  Excuses:,  says 
the  sergent-de-ville,  as  he  politely  relieves  him  of  his 
upper  garments  and  displays  his  bust  in  the  full  day- 
light. Good  shoulders  enough — a  little  marked — 

traces  of  smallpox,  perhaps — but  white 

Crac!  from  the  sergent-de-ville's  broad  palm  on  the 
white  shoulder !  Now  look  !  Vogue  la  galere  ?  Out 
comes  the  big  red  V, —  mark  of  the  hot  iron  ;  he  had 
blistered  it  out  pretty  nearly — hadn't  he? — the  old 
rascal  VOLEUR,  branded  in  the  galleys  at  Marseilles  ! 
[Don't !  What  if  he  has  got  something  like  this  ? — 
nobody  supposes  I  invented  such  a  story.] 

My  man  John,  who  used  to  drive  two  of  those  six 
equine  females,  which  I  told  you  I  had  owned — for, 
look  you,  my  friends,  simple  though  I  stand  here,  I 
am  one  that  has  been  driven  in  his  "kerridge" — not 
using  that  term,  as  liberal  shepherds  do,  for  any 
battered  old  shabby-genteel  go-cart,  which  has  more 


90  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

than  one  wheel,  but  meaning  thereby  a  four-wheeled 
vehicle  with  a  pole,  my  man  John,  I  say,  was  a 
retired  soldier.  He  retired  unostentatiously,  as  many 
of  Her  Majesty's  modest  servants  have  done  before 
and  since.  John  told  me,  that  when  an  officer 
thinks  he  recognises  one  of  these  retiring  heroes, 
and  would  know  if  he  has  really  been  in  the  service, 
that  he  may  restore  him,  if  possible,  to  a  grateful 
country,  he  comes  suddenly  upon  him,  and  says 
sharply,  "  Strap  ! "  If  he  has  ever  worn  the  shoulder- 
strap,  he  has  learned  the  reprimand  for  its  ill  adjust- 
ment. The  old  word  of  command  flashes  through 
his  muscles,  and  his  hand  goes  up  in  an  instant  to 
the  place  where  the  strap  used  to  be. 

[1  was  all  the  time  preparing  for  my  grand  coup, 
you  understand  ;  but  I  saw  they  were  not  quite  ready 
for  it,  and  so  continued — always  in  illustration  of  the 
general  principle  I  had  laid  down.] 

Yes,  odd  things  come  out  in  ways  that  nobody 
thinks  of.  There  was  a  legend  that,  when  the  Danish 
pirates  made  descents  upon  the  English  coast,  they 
caught  a  few  Tartars  occasionally,  in  the  shape  of 
Saxons,  who  would  not  let  them  go,  on  the  contrary, 
insisted  on  their  staying,  and,  to  make  sure  of  it, 
treated  them  as  Apollo  treated  Marsyas,  or  as  Bartho- 
linus  has  treated  a  fellow-creature  in  his  title-page, 
and,  having  divested  them  of  the  one  essential  and 
perfectly  fitting  garment,  indispensable  in  the  mildest 
climates,  nailed  the  same  on  the  church-door  as  we  do 
the  banns  of  marriage,  in  terrorem. 

[There  was  a  laugh  at  this  among  some  of  the  young 
folks  !  but  as  I  looked  at  our  landlady,  I  saw  that 
"  the  water  stood  in  her  eyes,"  as  it  did  in  Christiana's 
when  the  interpreter  asked  her  about  the  spider  ;  and 
I  fancied,  but  wasn't  quite  sure,  that  the  schoolmistress 
blushed,  as  Mercy  did  in  the  same  conversation,  as  you 
remember.  ] 

That  sounds  like  a  cock-and-bull  story,  said  the 
young  fellow  whom  they  call  John.  I  abstain  from 
making  Hamlet's  remark  to  Horatio,  and  continued. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  91 

Not  long  since,  the  churchwardens  were  repairing 
and  beautifying  an  old  Saxon  church  in  a  certain 
English  village,  and  among  other  things  thought  the 
doors  should  be  attended  to.  One  of  them  particu- 
larly, the  front  door,  looked  very  badly,  crusted,  as  it 
were,  and  as  if  it  would  be  all  the  better  for  scraping. 
There  happened  to  be  a  microscopist  in  the  village 
who  had  heard  the  old  pirate  story,  and  he  took 
it  into  his  head  to  examine  the  crust  on  this  door. 
There  was  no  mistake  about  it ;  it  was  a  genuine 
historical  document,  of  the  Ziska  drumhead  pattern 
— a  real  cutis  humana — stripped  from  some  old  Scan- 
dinavian filibuster,  and  the  legend  was  true. 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  settled  an  important  his- 
torical and  financial  question  once  by  the  aid  of  an 
exceedingly  minute  fragment  of  a  similar  document. 
Behind  the  pane  of  plate  glass  which  bore  his  name 
and  title  burned  a  modest  lamp,  signifying  to  the 
passers-by  that  at  all  hours  of  the  night  the  slightest 
favours  (or  fevers)  were  welcome.  A  youth  who  had 
freely  partaken  of  the  cup  which  cheers  and  likewise 
inebriates,  following  a  moth-like  impulse  very  natural 
under  the  circumstances,  dashed  his  fist  at  the  light, 
and  quenched  the  meek  luminary,  breaking  through 
the  plate-glass  of  course  to  reach  it.  Now  J  don't 
want  to  go  into  minutia  at  table,  you  know,  but  a 
naked  hand  can  no  more  go  through  a  pane  of  thick 
glass  without  leaving  some  of  its  cuticle,  to  say  the 
least,  behind  it,  than  a  butterfly  can  go  through  a 
sausage  machine  without  looking  the  worse  for  it. 
The  Professor  gathered  up  the  fragments  of  glass 
and  with  them  certain  very  minute  but  entirely  satis- 
factory documents  which  would  have  identified  and 
hanged  any  rogue  in  Christendom  who  had  parted 
with  them.  The  historical  question,  Who  did  it? 
and  the  financial  question,  Who  paid  for  it?  were 
both  settled  before  the  new  lamp  was  lighted  the  next 
evening. 

You  see,  my  friends,  what  immense  conclusions, 
touching  our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and  our  sacred 


92  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

honour,  may  be  reached  by  means  of  very  insignificant 
premises.  This  is  eminently  true  of  manners  and 
forms  of  speech  ;  a  movement  or  a  phrase  often  tells 
you  all  you  want  to  know  about  a  person.  Thus 
"How's  your  health?"  (commonly  pronounced  haalth), 
instead  of,  How  do  you  do  ?  or,  How  are  you  ?  Or 
calling  your  little  dark  entry  a  "  hall,"  and  your  old 
rickety  one-horse  waggon  a  "kerridge."  Or  telling 
a  person  who  has  been  trying  to  please  you  that  he 
has  given  you  pretty  good  "  sahtisfahction."  Or  saying 
that  you  f<  remember  of  "  such  a  thing,  or  that  you 
have  been  "  stoppin'  "  at  Deacon  Somebody's  —  and 
other  such  expressions.  One  of  my  friends  had  a 
little  marble  statuette  of  Cupid,  in  the  parlour  of  his 
country  house,  bow,  arrows,  wings  and  all  complete. 
A  visitor,  indigenous  to  the  region,  looking  pensively 
at  the  figure,  asked  the  lady  of  the  house  "  if  that 
was  a  statoo  of  her  deceased  infant?"  What  a  de- 
licious, though  somewhat  voluminous  biography,  social, 
educational  and  aesthetic,  in  that  brief  question. 

[Please  observe  with  what  Machiavellian  astuteness 
I  smuggled  in  the  particular  offence  which  it  was  my 
object  to  hold  up  to  my  fellow-boarders,  without  too 
personal  an  attack  on  the  individual  at  whose  door  it 


at  was  an  exceedingly  dull  person  who  made  the 
remark,  Ex  pede  Herculem.  He  might  as  well  have 
said,  "  From  a  peck  of  apples  you  may  judge  of  the 
barrel."  Ex  PEDE,  to  be  sure  !  Read,  instead,  Ex 
ungue  minimi  digiti  pedis,  Herculem,  ejusque  patrem, 
matrem,  avos  et  proavos,  filios,  nepotes  et  pronepotes! 
Talk  to  me  about  your  56$  vov  ar(u  \  Tell  me  about 
Cuvier's  getting  up  a  megatherium  from  a  tooth,  or 
Agassiz  drawing  a  portrait  of  an  undiscovered  fish 
from  a  single  scale  f  As  the  "  O  "  revealed  Giotto  — 
as  the  one  word  "  moi  "  betrayed  the  Stratford  -a  tte- 
Bowe-taught  Anglais,  —  so  all  a  man's  antecedents  and 
possibilities  are  summed  up  in  a  single  utterance,  which 
gives  at  once  the  gauge  of  his  education  and  his 
mental  organization. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  93 

Possibilities,  sir? — said  the  divinity-student, — can't 
a  man  who  says  Haow  '{  arrive  at  distinction  ? 

Sir, — I  replied, — in  a  republic  all  things  are  possible. 
But  the  man  with  a  future  has  almost  of  necessity  sense 
enough  to  see  that  any  odious  trick  of  speech  or  manners 
must  be  got  rid  of.  Doesn't  Sydney  Smith  say  that  a 
public  man  in  England  never  gets  over  a  false  quantity 
uttered  in  early  life  ?  Our  public  men  are  in  little 
danger  of  this  fatal  misstep,  as  few  of  them  are  in  the 
habit  of  introducing  Latin  into  their  speeches,  for  good 
and  sufficient  reasons.  But  they  are  bound  to  speak 
decent  English  ;  unless  indeed  they  are  rough  old 
campaigners,  like  General  Jackson  or  General  Taylor  ; 
in  which  case,  a  few  scars  on  Priscian's  head  are 
pardoned  to  old  fellows  who  have  quite  as  many  on 
their  own,  and  a  constituency  of  thirty  empires  is  not 
at  all  particular,  provided  they  do  not  swear  in  their 
Presidential  Messages. 

However,  it  is  not  for  me  to  talk.  I  have  made 
mistakes  enough  in  conversation  and  print.  I  never 
find  them  out  until  they  are  stereotyped,  and  then  I 
think  they  rarely  escape  me.  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall 
make  half  a  dozen  slips  before  this  breakfast  is  over, 
and  remember  them  all  before  another.  How  one  does 
tremble  with  rage  at  his  own  intense  momentary 
stupidity  about  things  he  knows  perfectly  well,  and 
to  think  how  he  lays  himself  open  to  the  impertinences 
of  the  captatores  verborum,  those  useful  but  humble 
scavengers  of  the  language,  whose  business  it  is  to 
pick  up  what  might  offend  or  injure,  and  remove  it, 
hugging  and  feeding  on  it  as  they  go  !  I  don't  want 
to  speak  too  slightingly  of  these  verbal  critics  ;  how 
can  I,  who  am  so  fond  of  talking  about  errors  and 
vulgarisms  of  speech  ?  Only  there  is  a  difference  be- 
tween those  clerical  blunders  which  almost  every  man 
commits,  knowing  better,  and  that  habitual  grossness 
or  meanness  of  speech  which  is  unendurable  to  educated 
persons,  from  anybody  that  wears  silk  or  broadcloth. 

[I  write  down  the  above  remarks  this  morning, 
January  the  26th,  making  this  record  of  the  date  that 


94  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

nobody  may  think  it  was  written  in  wrath  on  account 
of  any  particular  grievance  suffered  from  the  invasion 
of  any  individual  scarabceus  grammaticus.  ] 

I  wonder  if  anybody  ever  finds  fault  with  any- 
thing I  say  at  this  table  when  it  is  repeated  ?  I  hope 
they  do,  I  am  sure.  I  should  be  very  certain  that  I 
said  nothing  of  much  significance,  if  they  did  not. 

Did  you  never,  in  walking  in  the  fields,  come  across 
a  large  flat  stone,  which  had  lain,  nobody  knows  how 
long,  just  where  you  found  it,  with  the  grass  forming 
a  little  hedge,  as  it  were,  all  round  it,  close  to  its 
edges,  and  have  you  not,  in  obedience  to  a  kind  of 
feeling  that  told  you  it  had  been  lying  there  long 
enough,  insinuated  your  stick  or  your  foot  or  your 
fingers  under  its  edge  and  turned  it  over  as  a  house- 
wife turns  a  cake,  when  she  says  to  herself,  "  It's  done 
brown  enough  by  this  time  "  ?  What  an  odd  revelation, 
and  what  an  unforeseen  and  unpleasant  surprise  to  a 
small  community,  the  very  existence  of  which  you  had 
not  suspected,  until  the  sudden  dismay  and  scattering 
among  its  members  produced  by  your  turning  the  old 
stone  over  !  Blades  of  grass  flattened  down,  colourless, 
matted  together,  as  if  they  had  been  bleached  and 
ironed ;  hideous  crawling  creatures,  some  of  them 
coleopterous  or  horny-shelled — turtle-bugs  one  wants 
to  call  them — some  of  them  softer,  but  cunningly 
spread  out  and  compressed  like  Lepine  watches  (Nature 
never  loses  a  crack  or  a  crevice,  mind  you,  or  a  joint 
in  a  tavern  bedstead,  but  she  always  has  one  of  her 
flat^pattern  live  time-keepers  to  slide  into  it ; )  black, 
glossy  crickets,  with  their  long  filaments  sticking  out 
like  the  whips  of  four-horse  stage-coaches  ;  motionless, 
slug-like  creatures,  young  larvae,  perhaps  more  horrible 
in  their  pulpy  stillness  than  even  in  the  infernal  wriggle 
of  maturity  !  But  no  sooner  is  the  stone  turned  and 
the  wholesome  light  of  day  let  upon  this  compressed 
and  blinded  community  of  creeping  things,  than  all  of 
them  which  enjoy  the  luxury  of  legs — and  some  of 
them  have  a  good  many — rush  round  wildly,  butting 
each  other  and  everything  in  their  way,  and  end  in 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  95 

a  general  stampede  for  underground  retreats  from 
the  region  poisoned  by  sunshine.  Next  year  you  will 
find  the  grass  growing  tall  and  green  where  the  stone 
lay  ;  the  ground-bird  builds  her  nest  where  the  beetle 
had  his  hole ;  the  dandelion  and  the  buttercup  are 
growing  there  ;  and  the  broad  fans  of  insect-angels 
open  and  shut  over  their  golden  disks,  as  the  rhythmic 
waves  of  blissful  consciousness  pulsate  through  their 
glorified  being. 

The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  saw 

fit  to  say,  in  his  very  familiar  way, — at  which  I  do 
not  choose  to  take  offence,  but  which  I  sometimes 
think  it  necessary  to  repress, — that  I  was  coming  it 
rather  strong  on  the  butterflies. 

No,  I  replied  ;  there  is  meaning  in  each  of  those 
images, — the  butterfly  as  well  as  the  others.  The 
stone  is  ancient  error.  The  grass  is  human  nature 
borne  down  and  bleached  of  all  its  colour  by  it.  The 
shapes  which  are  found  beneath  are  the  crafty  beings 
that  thrive  in  darkness,  and  the  weaker  organisms 
kept  helpless  by  it.  He  who  turns  the  stone  over  is 
whosoever  puts  the  staff  of  truth  to  the  old  lying 
incubus,  no  matter  whether  he  do  it  with  a  serious 
face  or  a  laughing  one.  The  next  year  stands  for 
the  coming  time.  Then  shall  the  nature  which  had 
lain  blanched  and  broken  rise  in  its  full  stature  and 
native  hues  in  the  sunshine.  Then  shall  God's  min- 
strels build  their  nests  in  the  hearts  of  a  new-born 
humanity.  Then  shall  beauty — Divinity  taking  out- 
lines and  colour — light  upon  the  souls  of  men  as  the 
butterfly,  image  of  the  beautiful  spirit  rising  from  the 
dust,  soars  from  the  shell  that  held  a  poor  grub, 
which  would  never  have  found  wings  had  not  the 
stone  been  lifted. 

You  never  need  think  you  can  turn  over  any  old 
falsehood  without  a  terrible  squirming  and  scattering 
of  the  horrid  little  population  that  dwells  under  it. 

Every  real  thought  on  every  real  subject 

knocks  the  wind  out  of  somebody  or  other.  As  soon 
as  his  breath  comes  back,  he  very  probably  begins  to 


96  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

expend  it  in  hard  words.  These  are  the  best  evidence 
a  man  can  have  that  he  has  said  something  it  was  time  to 
say.  Dr  Johnson  was  disappointed  in  the  effect  of  coe 
of  his  pamphlets.  "  1  think  I  have  not  been  attacked 
enough  for  it,"  he  said  ; — "  attack  is  the  reaction  :  I 
never  think  I  have  hit  hard  unless  it  rebounds." 

If  a  fellow  attacked   my   opinions   in   print, 

would    I    reply?     Not    I.     Do    you    think    1    don't 
understand  what  my  friend,  the  Professor,  long  ago 
called  the  hydrostatic  paradox  oj  controversy  ? 

Don't  know  what  that  means  ? — Well,  I  will  tell 
you.  You  know,  that,  if  you  had  a  bent  tube,  one 
arm  of  which  was  the  size  of  a  pipe-stem,  and  the 
other  big  enough  to  hold  the  ocean,  water  would 
stand  at  the  same  height  in  one  as  in  the  other. 
Controversy  equalizes  fools  and  wise  men  in  the  same 
way, — and  the  fools  know  it. 

No,    but   I  often   read   what   they  say  about 

other    people.      There    are    about    a    dozen    phrases 
which   all    come   tumbling  along  together,   like   the 
tongs,  and  the  shovel,  and  the  poker,  and  the  brush, 
and  the  bellows,  in  one  of  those  domestic  avalanches 
that  everybody  knows.     If  you  get  one  you  get  the 
whole  lot. 

What  are  they? — O,  that  depends  a  good  deal  on 
latitude  and  longitude.  Epithets  follow  the  isother- 
mal lines  pretty  accurately.  Grouping  them  in  two 
families,  one  finds  himself  a  clever,  genial,  witty, 
wise,  brilliant,  sparkling,  thoughtful,  distinguished, 
celebrated,  illustrious  scholar  and  perfect  gentleman, 
the  first  writer  of  the  age  ;  or  a  dull,  foolish,  wicked, 
pert,  shallow,  ignorant,  insolent,  traitorous,  black- 
hearted outcast,  and  disgrace  to  civilization. 

What  do  I  think  determines  the  set  of  phrases  a 
man  gets? — Well,  I  should  say  a  set  of  influences 
something  like  these  :  —  1st,  Relationships,  political, 
religious,  social,  domestic.  2nd,  Oysters,  in  the 
form  of  suppers  given  to  gentlemen  connected  with 
criticism.  1  believe  in  the  school,  the  college,  and 
the  clergy  ;  but  my  sovereign  logic  for  regulating 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  97 

public  opinion — which  means  commonly  the  opinion 
of  half  a  dozen  of  the  critical  gentry — is  the  following 
Major  proposition  :  Oysters  au  naturel.  Minor  propo- 
sition :  The  same  "scalloped."  Conclusion:  That 

(here  insert  entertainer's  name)  is  clever,  witty, 

wise,  brilliant, — and  the  rest. 

No,   it  isn't   exactly  bribery.     One  man  has 

oysters,  and  another  epithets.     It  is  an  exchange  of 
hospitalities;  one  gives  a   "spread"    on   linen,   and 
the   other   on  paper, — that   is  all.     Don't  you  think 
you  and  I  should  be  apt  to  do  just  so,  if  we  were 
in  the  critical  line  ?     I  am  sure  I  couldn't  resist  the 
softening  influences   of  hospitality.     I   don't  like  to 
dine  out,  you  know, — I  dine  so  well  at  our  own  table 
[our  landlady  looked  radiant],  and  the  company  is  so 
pleasant  [a  rustling  movement  of  satisfaction  among 
the  boarders] ;  but  if  I  did  partake  of  a  man's  salt, 
with  such  additions  as  that  article  of  food  requires 
to  make  it  palatable,  I  could  never  abuse  him,  and 
if  I  had  to  speak  of  him,  I  suppose  I  should  hang  my 
set  of  jingling  epithets  round   him  like  a  string  of 
sleigh-bells.     Good    feeling    helps    society    to    make 
liars   of  most   of  us,  —  not   absolute  liars,   but   such 
careless  handlers  of  truth  that  its  sharp  corners  get 
terribly  rounded.     I  love  truth  as  chiefest  among  the 
virtues  ;  I   trust  it  runs  in  my  blood  ;  but   I  would 
never  be  a  critic,  because  I  know  I  could  not  always 
tell   it.     I   might   write  a  criticism   of  a   book   that 
happened  to  please  me  ;  that  is  another  matter. 

Listen,  Benjamin  Franklin  !     This  is   for  you 

and  such  others  of  tender  age  as  you  may  tell  it  to. 

When  we  are  as  yet  small  children,  long  before  the 
time  when  those  two  grown  ladies  offer  us  the  choice 
of  Hercules,  there  comes  up  to  us  a  youthful  angel, 
holding  in  his  right  hand  cubes  like  dice,  and  in  his 
left  spheres  like  marbles.  The  cubes  are  of  stainless 
ivory,  and  on  each  is  written  in  letters  of  gold — 
TRUTH.  The  spheres  are  veined  and  streaked  and 
spotted  beneath,  with  a  dark  crimson  flush  above, 
where  the  light  falls  on  them,  and  in  a  certain  aspect 
0 


98  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

you  can  make  out  upon  every  one  of  them  the  three 
letters  L,  I,  E.  The  child  to  whom  they  are  offered 
very  probably  clutches  at  both.  The  spheres  are  the 
most  convenient  things  in  the  world ;  they  roll  with 
the  least  possible  impulse  just  where  the  child  would 
have  them.  The  cubes  will  not  roll  at  all ;  they 
have  a  great  talent  for  standing  still,  and  always  keep 
right  side  up.  But  very  soon  the  young  philosopher 
finds  that  things  which  roll  so  easily  are  very  apt  to 
roll  into  the  wrong  corner,  and  to  get  out  of  his 
way  when  he  most  wants  them,  while  he  always 
knows  where  to  find  the  others,  which  stay  where 
they  are  left.  Thus  he  learns — thus  we  learn — to 
drop  the  streaked  and  speckled  globes  of  falsehood 
and  to  hold  fast  the  white  angular  blocks  of  truth. 
But  then  comes  Timidity,  and  after  her  Good-nature, 
and  last  of  all  Polite  behaviour,  all  insisting  that 
truth  must  roll,  or  nobody  can  do  anything  with  it ; 
and  so  the  first  with  her  course  rasp,  and  the  second 
with  her  broad  file,  and  the  third  with  her  silken 
sleeve,  do  so  round  off  and  smooth  and  polish  the 
snow  white  cubes  of  truth,  that,  when  they  have  got 
a  little  dingy  by  use,  it  becomes  hard  to  tell  them 
from  the  rolling  spheres  of  falsehood. 

The  schoolmistress  was  polite  enough  to  say  that 
she  was  pleased  with  this,  and  that  she  would  read 
it  to  her  little  flock  the  next  day.  But  she  should 
tell  the  children,  she  said,  that  there  were  better 
reasons  for  truth  than  could  be  found  in  mere 
experience  of  its  convenience  and  the  inconvenience 
of  lying. 

Yes, — I  said, —  but  education  always  begins  through 
the  senses,  and  works  up  to  the  idea  of  absolute  right 
and  wrong.  The  first  thing  the  child  has  to  learn  about 
this  matter  is,  that  lying  is  unprofitable, — afterwards, 
that  it  is  against  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the  universe. 

Do  I  think  that  the  particular  form  of  lying 

often  seen  in  newspapers,  under  the  title,  "  From  our 
Foreign  Correspondent,"  does  any  harm  ? — Why,  no, 
— I  don't  know  that  it  does.  I  suppose  it  doesn't 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  99 

really  deceive  people  any  more  than  the  "  Arabian 
Nights"  or  " Gulliver's  Travels"  do.  Sometimes 
the  writers  compile  too  carelessly,  though,  and  mix  up 
facts  out  of  geographies,  and  stories  out  of  the  penny 
papers,  so  as  to  mislead  those  who  are  desirous  of 
information.  I  cut  a  piece  out  of  one  of  the  papers 
the  other  day,  which  contains  a  number  of  improba- 
bilities, and,  I  suspect,  misstatements.  I  will  send  up 
and  get  it  for  you,  if  you  would  like  to  hear  it. — Ah, 
this  is  it ;  it  is  headed 

"  OUR  SUMATRA  CORRESPONDENCE 

"  This  island  is  now  the  property  of  the  Stamford 
family, — having  been  won,  it  is  said,  in  a  raffle,  by  Sir 

Stamford,  during  the  stock-gambling  mania  of  the 

South  Sea  Scheme.  The  history  of  this  gentleman 
may  be  found  in  an  interesting  series  of  questions 
(unfortunately  not  yet  answered)  contained  in  the 
'Notes  and  Queries/  This  island  is  entirely  sur- 
rounded by  the  ocean,  which  here  contains  a  large 
amount  of  saline  substance,  crystallizing  in  cubes 
remarkable  for  their  symmetry,  and  frequently  dis- 
plays on  its  surface,  during  calm  weather,  the  rainbow 
tints  of  the  celebrated  South  Sea  bubbles.  The 
summers  are  oppressively  hot,  and  the  winters  very 
probably  cold  ;  but  this  fact  cannot  be  ascertained 
precisely,  as,  for  some  peculiar  reason,  the  mercury  in 
these  latitudes  never  shrinks,  as  in  more  northern 
regions,  and  thus  the  thermometer  is  rendered  useless 
in  winter. 

"  The  principal  vegetable  productions  of  the  island 
are  the  pepper  tree  and  the  bread-fruit  tree.  Pepper 
being  very  abundantly  produced,  a  benevolent  society 
was  organized  in  London  during  the  last  century  for 
supplying  the  natives  with  vinegar  and  oysters,  as  an 
addition  to  that  delightful  condiment.  [Note  re- 
ceived from  Dr  D.  P.]  It  is  said,  however,  that,  aa 
the  oysters  were  of  the  kind  called  natives  in  England, 
the  natives  of  Sumatra,  in  obedience  to  a  natural 


100  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

instinct,  refused  to  touch  them,  and  confined  them- 
selves entirely  to  the  crew  of  the  vessel  in  which  the) 
were  brought  over.  This  information  was  received 
from  one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants,  a  native  himself, 
and  exceedingly  fond  of  missionaries.  He  is  said 
also  to  be  very  skilful  in  the  cuisine  peculiar  to  the 
island. 

"  During  the  season  of  gathering  the  pepper,  the 
persons  employed  are  subject  to  various  incommodities, 
the  chief  of  which  is  violent  and  long-continued 
sternutation,  or  sneezing.  Such  is  the  vehemence  of 
these  attacks,  that  the  unfortunate  subjects  of  them 
are  often  driven  backwards  for  great  distances  at 
immense  speed,  on  the  well-known  principle  of  the 
aeolipile.  Not  being  able  to  see  where  they  are  going, 
these  poor  creatures  dash  themselves  to  pieces  against 
the  rocks  or  are  precipitated  over  the  cliffs,  and  thus 
many  valuable  lives  are  lost  annually.  As,  during  the 
whole  pepper-harvest,  they  feed  exclusively  on  this 
stimulant,  they  become  exceedingly  irritable.  The 
smallest  injury  is  resented  with  ungovernable  rage. 
A  young  man  suffering  from  the  pepper-fever,  as  it  is 
called,  cudgelled  another  most  severely  for  appropriat- 
ing a  superannuated  relative  of  trifling  value,  and  was 
only  pacified  by  having  a  present  made  him  of  a  pig 
of  that  peculiar  species  of  swine  called  the  Peccavi  by 
the  Catholic  Jews,  who,  it  is  well  known,  abstain 
from  swine's  flesh  in  imitation  of  the  Mahometan 
Buddhists. 

"  The  bread-tree  grows  abundantly.  Its  branches 
are  well  known  to  Europe  and  America  under  the 
familiar  name  of  maccaroni.  The  smaller  twigs  are 
called  vermicelli.  They  have  a  decided  animal  flavour, 
as  may  be  observed  in  the  soups  containing  them. 
Maccaroni,  being  tubular,  is  the  favourite  habitat  of  a 
very  dangerous  insect,  which  is  rendered  peculiarly 
ferocious  by  being  boiled.  The  government  of  the 
island,  therefore,  never  allows  a  stick  of  it  to  be 
exported  without  being  accompanied  by  a  piston,  with 
which  its  cavity  may  at  any  time  be  thoroughly  swept 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  101 

out.  These  are  commonly  lost  or  stolen  before  the 
maccaroni  arrives  among  us.  It  therefore  always 
contains  many  of  these  insects,  which,  however, 
generally  die  of  old  age  in  the  shops,  so  that  accidents 
from  this  source  are  comparatively  rare. 

"  The  fruit  of  the  bread-tree  consists  principally  of 
hot  rolls.  The  buttered-muffin  variety  is  supposed  to 
be  a  hybrid  with  the  cocoa-nut  palm,  the  cream  found 
on  the  milk  of  the  cocoa-nut  exuding  from  the  hybrid 
in  the  shape  of  butter,  just  as  the  ripe  fruit  is  splitting, 
so  as  to  fit  it  for  the  tea-table,  where  it  is  commonly 
served  up  with  cold " 

There, — I  don't  want  to  read  any  more  of  it. 

You  see  that  many  of  these  statements  are  highly  im- 
probable.— No,  I  shall  not  mention  the  paper. — No, 
neither  of  them  wrote  it,  though  it  reminds  me  of  the 
style  of  these  popular  writers.  I  think  the  fellow  who 
wrote  it  must  have  been  reading  some  of  their  stories, 
and  got  them  mixed  up  with  his  history  and  geography. 
I  don't  suppose  he  lies  ; — he  sells  it  to  the  editor,  who 
knows  how  many  squares  off  ' '  Sumatra "  is.  The 

editor,  who  sells  it  to  the  public .  By  the  way, 

the  papers  have  been  very  civil — haven't  they  ? — to  the 
— the — what  d'ye  call  it  ? — "  Northern  Magazine," — 
isn't  it  ? — got  up  by  some  of  those  Come-outers,  down 
East,  as  an  organ  for  their  local  peculiarities. 

The  Professor  has  been  to  see  me.  Came  in, 

glorious,  at  about  twelve  o'clock  last  night.  Said  he 
had  been  with  "the  boys."  On  inquiry,  found  that 
"  the  boys "  were  certain  baldish  and  greyish  old 
gentlemen  that  one  sees  or  hears  of  in  various  im- 
portant stations  of  society.  The  Professor  is  one  of 
the  same  set,  but  he  always  talks  as  if  he  had  been 
out  of  college  about  ten  years,  whereas  .... 

.  .  .  .  [Each  of  these  dots  was  a  little  nod, 
which  the  company  understood,  as  the  reader  will,  no 
doubt.]  He  calls  them  sometimes  "the  boys,"  and 
sometimes  "the  old  fellows."  Call  him  by  the  latter 
title,  and  see  how  he  likes  it. — Well,  he  came  in  last 
night  glorious,  as  I  was  saying.  Of  course,  I  don't 

LIBRARY 


102  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

mean  vinously  exalted  ;  he  drinks  little  wine  on  snch 
occasions,  and  is  well  known  to  all  the  Peters  and 
Patricks  as  the  gentleman  who  always  has  indefinite 
quantities  of  black  tea  to  kill  any  extra  glass  of  red 
claret  he  may  have  swallowed.  But  the  Professor  says 
he  always  gets  tipsy  on  old  memories  at  these  gather- 
ings. He  was,  I  forget  how  many  years  old  when  he 
went  to  the  meeting  ;  just  turned  of  twenty  now, — he 
said.  He  made  various  youthful  proposals  to  me, 
including  a  duet  under  the  landlady's  daughter's 
window.  He  had  just  learned  a  trick,  he  said,  of  one 
of  "  the  boys,"  of  getting  a  splendid  bass  out  of  a 
door-panel  by  rubbing  it  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
Offered  to  sing  "  The  sky  is  bright,"  accompanying 
himself  on  the  front  door,  if  I  would  go  down  and 
help  in  the  chorus.  Said  there  never  was  such  a  set 
of  fellows  as  the  old  boys  of  the  set  he  has  been  with. 
Judges,  mayors,  Congressmen,  Mr  Speakers,  leaders, 
in  science,  clergymen  better  than  famous,  and  famous 
too,  poets  by  the  half-dozen,  singers  with  voices  like 
angels,  financiers,  wits,  three  of  the  best  laughers  in 
the  Commonwealth,  engineers,  agriculturists,  —  all 
forms  of  talent  and  knowledge  he  pretended  were  re- 
presented in  that  meeting.  Then  he  began  to  quote 
Byron  about  Santa  Croce,  and  maintained  that  he 
could  "  furnish  out  creation  "  in  all  its  details  from  that 
set  of  his.  He  would  like  to  have  the  whole  boodle 
of  them  (I  remonstrated  against  this  word,  but  the 
Professor  said  it  was  a  diabolish  good  word,  and  he 
would  have  no  other),  with  their  wives  and  children, 
shipwrecked  on  a  remote  island,  just  to  see  how 
splendidly  they  would  reorganize  society.  They  could 
build  a  city,  they  have  done  it ;  make  constitutions 
and  laws  ;  establish  churches  and  lyceums  ;  teach  and 
practise  the  healing  art ;  instruct  in  every  depart- 
ment ;  found  observatories ;  create  commerce  and 
manufactures  ;  write  songs  and  hymns,  and  sing  'em, 
and  make  instruments  to  accompany  the  songs  with  ; 
lastly,  publish  a  journal  almost  as  good  as  the 
"  Northern  Magazine,"  edited  by  the  Come-outers. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  103 

There  was  nothing  they  were  not  up  to,  from  a 
christening  to  a  hanging ;  the  last,  to  be  sure,  could 
never  be  called  for,  unless  some  stranger  got  in  among 
them. 

I  let  the  Professor  talk  as  long  as  he  liked  ; 

it  didn't  make  much  difference  to  me  whether  it 
was  all  truth,  or  partly  made  up  of  pale  sherry  and 
similar  elements.  All  at  once  he  jumped  up  and 
said — 

Don't  you  want  to  hear  what  I  just  read  to  the 
boys  ? 

I  have  had  questions  of  a  similar  character  asked 
me  before,  occasionally.  A  man  of  iron  mould  might 
perhaps  say,  No  !  I  am  not  a  man  of  iron  mould,  and 
said  that  I  should  be  delighted. 

The  Professor  then  read — with  that  slightly  sing- 
song cadence  which  is  observed  to  be  common  in 
poets  reading  their  own  verses — the  following  stanzas  ; 
holding  them  at  a  focal  distance  of  about  two  feet 
and  a  half,  with  an  occasional  movement  back  or  for- 
ward for  better  adjustment,  the  appearance  of  which 
has  been  likened  by  some  impertinent  young  folks  to 
that  of  the  act  of  playing  on  the  trombone.  Hia 
eyesight  was  never  better  ;  1  have  his  word  for  it. 

MARE  RUBRUM 

Flash  out  a  stream  of  blood-red  wine  ! — 

For  I  would  drink  to  other  days  ; 
And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 

Seen  flaming  through  its  crimson  blaze. 
The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade  ; 

But  every  ghost  of  boyhood's  dream 
By  Nature's  magic  power  is  laid 

To  sleep  beneath  this  blood-red  stream. 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay 
And  drank  the  splendours  of  the  sun 

Where  the  long  summer's  cloudless  day 
Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne  : 


104  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

Jt  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 

That  saw  their  hoarded  sunlight  shed, — 

The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes, — 

Their  milk-white  ankles  splashed  with  red. 

Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast, 
Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die, 

Those  swift-winged  visions  of  the  past. 
Kiss  but  the  crystal's  mystic  rim, 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a  bubble  from  its  brim 

And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Poor  Beauty  !  time  and  fortune's  wrong 

No  form  nor  feature  may  withstand, — 
Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 

Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand  ; — 
Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 

The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl, 
As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 

Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 

Here  lies  the  home  of  school-boy  life, 

With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept  hall, 
And,  scarred  by  many  a  truant  knife, 

Our  old  initials  on  the  wall  ; 
Here  rest— their  keen  vibrations  mute — 

The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well, 
The  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 

The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  bell. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 

Life's  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed  ; 
And  here  those  cherished  forms  have  strayed 

We  miss  awhile,  and  call  them  dead. 
What  wizard  fills  the  maddening  glass  ? 

What  soil  the  enchanted  clusters  grew, 
That  buried  passions  wake  and  pass 

In  beaded  drops  of  fiery  dew  t 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  105 

Nay,  take  the  cup  of  blood-red  wine, — 

Our  hearts  can  boast  a  warmer  glow, 
Filled  from  a  vintage  more  divine, — 

Calmed,  but  not  chilled  by  winter  snow  ! 
To-night  the  palest  wave  we  sip 

Rich  as  the  priceless  draught  shall  be 
That  wet  the  bride  of  Cana's  lip, — 

The  wedding  wine  of  Galilee  ! 


VI 

SIN  has  many  tools,  but  a  lie  is  the  handle  which  fits 
them  all. 

I  think,  sir, — said  the  divinity-student, — yoa 

must  intend  that  for  one  of  the  sayings  of  the  Seven 
Wise  Men  of  Boston  you  were  speaking  of  the  other  day. 

I  thank  you,  my  young  friend, — was  my  reply, — 
but  I  must  say  something  better  than  that,  before  J 
could  pretend  to  fill  out  the  number. 

The  schoolmistress  wanted  to  know  how  many 

of  these  sayings  there  were  on  record,  and  what,  and 
by  whom  said. 

Why,  let  us  see, — there  is  that  one  of  Benjamin 

Franklin,  "  the  great  Bostonian,"  after  whom  this  lad 
was  named.  To  be  sure,  he  said  a  great  many  wise 
things, — and  I  don't  feel  sure  he  didn't  borrow  this, 
— he  speaks  as  if  it  were  old.  But  then  he  applied  it 
so  neatly  ! — 

"  He  that  has  once  done  you  a  kindness  will  be 
more  ready  to  do  you  another  than  he  whom  you  your- 
self have  obliged." 

Then  there  is  that  glorious  Epicurean  paradox 
uttered  by  my  friend,  the  Historian,  in  one  of  his 
flashing  moments : — 

"  Give  us  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  we  will  dispense 
with  its  necessaries." 

To  these  must  certainly  be  added  that  other  saying 
of  one  of  the  wittiest  of  men  : — 

"  Good  Americans,  when  they  die,  go  to  Paris." 

The  divinity-student  looked  grave  at  this,  but 

said  nothing. 

The  schoolmistress  spoke  out,  and  said  she  didn't 
think  the  wit  meant  any  irreverence.  Jt  was  only 

106 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  107 

another  way  of  saying,  Paris  is  a  heavenly  place  after 
New  York  or  Boston. 

A  jaunty-looking  person,  who  had  come  in  with  the 
young  fellow  they  call  John, — evidently  a  stranger, — 
said  there  was  one  more  wise  man's  saying  that  he 
had  heard :  it  was  about  our  place,  but  he  didn't 
know  who  said  it. — A  civil  curiosity  was  manifested 
by  the  company  to  hear  the  fourth  wise  saying.  I 
heard  him  distinctly  whispering  to  the  young  fellow 
who  brought  him  to  dinner,  Shall  I  tell  it  ?  To  which 
the  answer  was,  Go  ahead! — Well, — he  said, — this  is 
what  I  heard  : — 

"  Boston  State-House  is  the  hub  of  the  solar  system. 
You  couldn't  pry  that  out  of  a  Boston  man,  if  you  had 
the  tire  of  all  creation  straightened  out  for  a  crowbar." 

Sir, — said  I, — I  am  gratified  with  your  remark.  It 
expresses  with  pleasing  vivacity  that  which  I  have 
sometimes  heard  uttered  with  malignant  dulness. 
The  satire  of  the  remark  is  essentially  true  of  Boston, 
— and  of  all  other  considerable — and  inconsiderable — 
places  with  which  I  have  had  the  privilege  of  being 
acquainted.  Cockneys  think  London  is  the  only  place 
in  the  world.  Frenchmen — you  remember  the  line 
about  Paris,  the  Court,  the  World,  etc. — I  recollect 
well,  by  the  way,  a  sign  in  that  city  which  ran  thus : 
"  Hotel  de  1'Univers  et  des  Etats  Unis"  ;  and  as  Paris 
is  the  universe  to  a  Frenchman,  of  course  the  United 
States  are  outside  of  it. — "  See  Naples  and  then  die." 
—  It  is  quite  as  bad  with  smaller  places.  I  have  been 
about  lecturing,  you  know,  and  have  found  the 
following  propositions  to  hold  true  of  all  of  them. 

1.  The  axis  of  the  earth  sticks  out  visibly  through 
the  centre  of  each  and  every  town  or  city. 

2.  If  more  than  fifty  years  have  passed   since  its 
foundation,  it  is  affectionately  styled  by  the  inhabitants 

the  "good  old  town  of" (whatever  its  name  may 

happen  to  be). 

3.  Every  collection   of  its   inhabitants   that  comes 
together  to  listen  to  a  stranger  is  invariably  declared 
to  be  a  <(  remarkably  intelligent  audience." 


108  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

4.  The  climate  of  the  place  is  particularly  favour- 
able to  longevity. 

5.  It  contains  several  persons  of  vast  talent  little 
known  to  the  world.     (One  or  two  of  them,  you  may 
perhaps  chance  to  remember,  sent  short  pieces  to  the 
"  Pactolian "  some  time  since,  which  were  "  respect- 
fully declined.") 

Boston  is  just  like  other  places  of  its  size  ; — only 
perhaps,  considering  its  excellent  fish-market,  paid 
fire-department,  superior  monthly  publications,  and 
correct  habit  of  spelling  the  English  language,  it  has 
some  right  to  look  down  on  the  mob  of  cities.  I'll 
tell  you,  though,  if  you  want  to  know  it,  what  is  the 
real  offence  of  Boston.  It  drains  a  large  water-shed 
of  its  intellect,  and  will  not  itself  be  drained.  If  it 
would  only  send  away  its  first-rate  men,  instead  of  its 
second-rate  ones  (no  offence  to  the  well-known  excep- 
tions, of  which  we  are  always  proud),  we  should  be 
spared  such  epigrammatic  remarks  as  that  which  the 
gentleman  has  quoted.  There  can  never  be  a  real 
metropolis  in  this  country  until  the  biggest  centre  can 
drain  the  lesser  ones  of  their  talent  and  wealth. — I 
have  observed,  by  the  way,  that  the  people  who  really 
live  in  two  great  cities  are  by  no  means  so  jealous  of 
each  other,  as  are  those  of  smaller  cities  situated 
within  the  intellectual  basin,  or  suction-range,  of  one 
large  one,  of  the  pretensions  of  any  other.  Don't 
you  see  why  ?  Because  their  promising  young  author 
and  rising  lawyer  and  large  capitalist  have  been 
drained  off  to  the  neighbouring  big  city, — their  pret- 
tiest girl  has  been  exported  to  the  same  market ;  all 
their  ambition  points  there,  and  all  their  thin  gilding 
of  glory  comes  from  there.  I  hate  little  toad-eating 
cities. 

Would  I  be  so  good  as  to  specify  any  particular 

example? — Oh, — an  example?  Did  you  ever  see  a 
bear-trap?  Never?  Well,  shouldn't  you  like  to  sea 
me  put  my  foot  into  one?  With  sentiments  of  the 
highest  consideration  I  must  beg  leave  to  be  excused. 

Besides,  some  of  the  smaller  cities  are  charming. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  109 

If  they  have  an  old  church  or  two,  a  few  stately 
mansions  of  former  grandees,  here  and  there  an  old 
dwelling  with  the  second  storey  projecting  (for  the 
convenience  of  shooting  the  Indians  knocking  at  the 
front  door  with  their  tomahawks), — if  they  have, 
scattered  about,  those  mighty  square  houses  built 
something  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  and  standing 
like  architectural  boulders  dropped  by  the  former 
diluvium  of  wealth,  whose  refluent  wave  has  left 
them  as  its  monument, — if  they  have  gardens  with 
elbowed  apple-trees  that  push  their  branches  over  the 
high  broad-fence  and  drop  their  fruit  on  the  sidewalk, 
— if  they  have  a  little  grass  in  the  side  streets,  enough 
to  betoken  quiet  without  proclaiming  decay, — I  think 
I  could  go  to  pieces,  after  my  life's  work  were  done, 
in  one  of  those  tranquil  places,  as  sweetly  as  in  any 
cradle  that  an  old  man  may  be  rocked  to  sleep  in. 
I  visit  such  spots  always  with  infinite  delight.  My 
friend,  the  Poet,  says  that  rapidly-growing  towns  are 
most  unfavourable  to  the  imaginative  and  reflective 
faculties.  Let  a  man  live  in  one  of  these  old  quiet 
places,  he  says,  and  the  wine  of  his  soul,  which  is 
kept  thick  and  turbid  by  the  rattle  of  busy  streets, 
settles,  and,  as  you  hold  it  up,  you  may  see  the  sun 
through  it  by  day  and  the  stars  by  night. 

Do  I  think  that  the  little  villages  have  the 

conceit  of  the  great  towns? — I  don't  believe  there  is 
much  difference.  You  know  how  they  read  Pope's 
line  in  the  smallest  town  in  our  state  of  Massachusetts  ? 
— Well,  they  read  it 

"  All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  HULL  ! " 

Every  person's  feelings  have  a  front-door  and 

a  side-door  by  which  they  may  be  entered.  The 
front-door  is  on  the  street.  Some  keep  it  always 
open  ;  some  keep  it  latched  ;  some  locked  ;  some 
bolted, — with  a  chain  that  will  let  you  peep  in,  but 
not  get  in  ;  and  some  nail  it  up,  so  that  nothing  can 
pass  its  threshold.  This  front-door  leads  into  a  passage 
which  opens  into  an  anteroom,  and  this  into  the  interior 


110  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

apartments.  The  side-door  opens  at  once  into  the  sacred 
chambers. 

There  is  almost  always  at  least  one  key  to  this  side- 
door.  This  is  carried  for  years  hidden  in  a  mother's 
bosom.  Fathers,  brothers,  sisters,  and  friends,  often, 
but  by  no  means  so  universally,  have  duplicates  of  it. 
The  wedding-ring  conveys  a  right  to  one  ;  alas,  if  none 
is  given  with  it  ! 

If  nature  or  accident  has  put  one  of  these  keys 
into  the  hands  of  a  person  who  has  the  torturing  in- 
stinct, I  can  only  solemnly  pronounce  the  words  that 
Justice  utters  over  its  doomed  victim,  —  The  Lord 
have  mercy  on  your  soul!  You  will  probably  go  mad 
within  a  reasonable  time, — or,  if  you  are  a  man,  run  off 
and  die  with  your  head  on  a  curbstone,  in  Melbourne 
or  San  Francisco, — or,  if  you  are  a  woman,  quarrel  and 
break  your  heart,  or  turn  into  a  pale,  jointed  petrifac- 
tion, that  moves  about  as  if  it  were  alive,  or  play  some 
real  life-tragedy  or  other. 

Be  very  careful  to  whom  you  trust  one  of  these 
keys  of  the  side-door.  The  fact  of  possessing  one 
renders  those  even  who  are  dear  to  you  very  terrible 
at  times.  Yon  can  keep  the  world  out  from  your 
front-door,  or  receive  visitors  only  when  you  are  ready 
for  them  ;  but  those  of  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  or 
of  certain  grades  of  intimacy,  can  come  in  at  the  side- 
door  if  they  will,  at  any  hour  and  in  any  mood. 
Some  of  them  have  a  scale  of  your  whole  nervous 
system,  and  can  play  all  the  gamut  of  your  sensi- 
bilities in  semitones, — touching  the  naked  nerve-pulps 
as  a  pianist  strikes  the  keys  of  his  instrument.  I  am 
satisfied  that  there  are  as  great  masters  of  this  nerve- 
playing  as  Vieuxtemps  or  Thalberg  in  their  lines  of 
performance.  Married  life  is  the  school  in  which  the 
most  accomplished  artists  in  this  department  are 
found.  A  delicate  woman  is  the  best  instrument ; 
she  has  such  a  magnificent  compass  of  sensibilities  ! 
From  the  deep  inward  moan  which  follows  pressure 
on  the  great  nerves  of  right,  to  the  sharp  cry  as  the 
filaments  of  taste  are  struck  with  a  crashing-  sweep, 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  111 

is  a  range  which  no  other  instrument  possesses.  A 
few  exercises  on  it  daily  at  home,  fit  a  man  wonder- 
fully for  his  habitual  labours,  and  refresh  him  im- 
mensely as  he  returns  from  them.  No  stranger  can 
get  a  great  many  notes  of  torture  out  of  a  human 
soul ;  it  takes  one  that  knows  it  well, — parent,  child, 
brother,  sister,  intimate.  Be  very  careful  to  whom 
you  give  a  side-door  key  ;  too  many  have  them 
already. 

You  remember  the  old  story  of  the  tender- 
hearted man,  who  placed  a  frozen  viper  in  his  bosom, 
and  was  stung  by  it  when  it  became  thawed  ?  If  we 
take  a  cold-blooded  creature  into  our  bosom,  better 
that  it  should  sting  us  and  we  should  die  than  that 
its  chill  should  slowly  steal  into  our  hearts  ;  warm  it 
we  never  can  !  I  have  seen  faces  of  women  that  were 
fair  to  look  upon,  yet  one  could  see  that  the  icicles 
were  forming  round  these  women's  hearts.  I  knew 
what  freezing  image  lay  on  the  white  breasts  beneath 
the  laces  ! 

A  very  simple  intellectual  mechanism  answers  the 
necessities  of  friendship,  and  even  of  the  most  inti- 
mate relations  of  life.  If  a  watch  tells  us  the  hour 
and  minute,  we  can  be  content  to  carry  it  about  with 
us  for  a  lifetime,  though  it  has  no  second-hand  and 
is  not  a  repeater,  nor  a  musical  watch, — though  it  is 
not  enamelled  nor  jewelled, — in  short,  though  it  has 
little  beyond  the  wheels  required  for  a  trustworthy 
instrument,  added  to  a  good  face  and  a  pair  of  useful 
hands.  The  more  wheels  there  are  in  a  watch  or  a 
brain,  the  more  trouble  they  are  to  take  care  of.  The 
movements  of  exaltation  which  belong  to  genius  are 
egotistic  by  their  very  nature.  A  calm,  clear  mind, 
not  subject  to  the  spasms  and  crises  which  are  so 
often  met  with  in  creative  or  intensely  perceptive 
natures,  is  the  best  basis  for  love  or  friendship. — 
Observe,  I  am  talking  about  minds.  I  won't  say  the 
more  intellect  the  less  capacity  for  loving  ;  for  that 
would  do  wrong  to  the  understanding  and  reason  ; — 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  brain  often  runs 


112  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

away  with  the  heart's  best  blood,  which  gives  the 
world  a  few  pages  of  wisdom  or  sentiment  or  poetry, 
instead  of  making  one  other  heart  happy,  I  have  no 
question. 

If  one's  intimate  in  love  or  friendship  cannot  or 
does  not  share  all  one's  intellectual  tastes  or  pursuits, 
that  is  a  small  matter.  Intellectual  companions  can 
be  found  easily  in  men  and  books.  After  all,  if 
we  think  of  it,  most  of  the  world's  loves  and  friend- 
ships have  been  between  people  that  could  not  read 
nor  spell. 

But  to  radiate  the  heat  of  the  affections  into  a  clod, 
which  absorbs  all  that  is  poured  into  it,  but  never 
warms  beneath  the  sunshine  of  smiles  or  the  pressure 
of  hand  or  lip, — this  is  the  great  martyrdom  of  sensitive 
beings, — most  of  all  in  that  perpetual  auto  da  fe  where 
young  womanhood  is  the  sacrifice. 

You  noticed,  perhaps,  what  I  just  said  about 

the  loves  and  friendships  of  illiterate  persons, — that 
is,  of  the  human  race,  with  a  few  exceptions  here  and 
there.      I   like  books, — I   was  born  and   bred  among 
them,  and  have  the  easy  feeling,  when  I  get  into  their 
presence,  that  a  stable  boy  has  among  horses.     I  don't 
think  I  under-value  them  either  as  companions  or  as 
instructors.     But  I  can't  help  remembering  that  the 
world's  great   men   have  not  commonly   been   great 
scholars,    nor    its   great    scholars   great    men.      The 
Hebrew  patriarchs  had  small  libraries,  I  think,  if  any; 
yet  they  represent  to  our  imaginations  a  very  complete 
idea  of  manhood,  and    I   think,   if  we   could   ask   in 
Abraham  to  dine  with  us  men  of  letters  next  Saturday, 
we  should  feel  honoured  by  his  company. 

What  I  wanted  to  say  about  books  is  this :  that 
there  are  times  in  which  every  active  mind  feels  itself 
above  any  and  all  human  books. 

I  think  a  man  must  have  a  good  opinion  of 

himself,  sir, — said  the  divinity-student, — who  should 
feel  himself  above  Shakspeare  at  any  time. 

My  young  friend, — I  replied, — the  man  who  is  never 
•conscious  of  a  state  of  feeling  or  of  intellectual  effort 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  113 

entirely  beyond  expression  by  any  form  of  words  what- 
soever is  a  mere  creature  of  language.  I  can  hardly 
believe  there  are  any  such  men.  Why,  think  for  a 
moment  of  the  power  of  music.  The  nerves  that  make 
us  alive  to  it  spread  out  (so  the  Professor  tells  me)  in 
the  most  sensitive  region  of  the  marrow,  just  where  it 
is  widening  to  run  upwards  into  the  hemispheres.  It 
has  its  seat  in  the  region  of  sense  rather  than  of 
thought.  Yet  it  produces  a  continuous  and,  as  it  were, 
logical  sequence  of  emotional  and  intellectual  changes  ; 
but  how  different  from  trains  of  thought  proper  !  how 
entirely  beyond  the  reach  of  symbols  ! — Think  of 
human  passions  as  compared  with  all  phrases?  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  a  man  growing  lean  by  the  reading  of 
"  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  or  blowing  his  brains  out  because 
Desdemona  was  maligned  ?  There  are  a  good  many 
symbols,  even,  that  are  more  expressive  than  words. 
I  remember  a  young  wife  who  had  to  part  with  her 
husband  for  a  time.  She  did  not  write  a  mournful 
poem  ;  indeed,  she  was  a  silent  person,  and  perhaps 
hardly  said  a  word  about  it ;  but  she  quietly  turned  of 
a  deep  orange  colour  with  jaundice.  A  great  many 
people  in  this  world  have  but  one  form  of  rhetoric  for 
their  profoundest  experiences, — namely,  to  waste  away 
and  die.  When  a  man  can  read,  his  paroxysm  of 
feeling  is  passing  :  when  he  can  read,  his  thought  has 
slackened  its  hold. — You  talk  about  reading  Shakspeare, 
using  him  as  an  expression  for  the  highest  intellect, 
and  you  wonder  that  any  common  person  should  be  so 
presumptuous  as  to  suppose  his  thought  can  rise  above 
the  text  which  lies  before  him.  But  think  a  moment. 
A  child's  reading  of  Shakspeare  is  one  thing,  and 
Coleridge's  or  Schlegel's  reading  of  him  is  another. 
The  saturation-point  of  each  mind  differs  from  that  of 
any  other.  But  1  think  it  is  as  true  for  the  small  mind 
which  can  only  take  up  a  little  as  for  the  great  one 
which  takes  up  much,  that  the  suggested  trains  of 
thought  and  feeling  ought  always  to  rise  above — not 
the  author,  but  the  reader's  mental  version  of  the 
author,  whoever  he  may  be. 


114  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

I  think  most  readers  of  Shakspeare  sometimes  find 
themselves  thrown  into  exalted  mental  conditions  like 
those  produced  by  music.  Then  they  may  drop  the 
book,  to  pass  at  once  into  the  region  of  thought  without 
words.  We  may  happen  to  be  very  dull  folks,  you  and 
I,  and  probably  are,  unless  there  is  some  particular 
reason  to  suppose  the  contrary.  But  we  get  glimpses 
now  and  then  of  a  sphere  of  spiritual  possibilities, 
where  we,  dull  as  we  are  now,  may  sail  in  vast  circles 
round  the  largest  compass  of  earthly  intelligences. 

I  confess  there  are  times  when  I  feel  like  the 

friend  I  mentioned  to  you  some  time  ago, — I  hate  the 
very  sight  of  a  book.  Sometimes  it  becomes  almost  a 
physical  necessity  to  talk  out  what  is  in  the  mind 
before  putting  anything  else  into  it.  It  is  very  bad  to 
have  thoughts  and  feelings,  which  were  meant  to  come 
out  in  talk,  strike  in,  as  they  say  of  some  complaints 
that  ought  to  show  outwardly. 

I  always  believed  in  life  rather  than  in  books.  I 
suppose  every  day  of  earth,  with  its  hundred  thousand 
deaths  and  something  more  of  births — with  its  loves 
and  hates,  its  triumphs  and  defeats,  its  pangs  and 
blisses,  has  more  of  humanity  in  it  than  all  the  books 
that  were  ever  written,  put  together.  I  believe  the 
flowers  growing  at  this  moment  send  up  more  fragrance 
to  heaven  than  was  ever  exhaled  from  all  the  essences 
ever  distilled. 

Don't  I  read  up  various  matters  to  talk  about 

at  this  table  or  elsewhere  ? — No,  that  is  the  last  thing 
I  would  do.  I  will  tell  you  my  rule.  Talk  about 
those  subjects  you  have  had  long  in  your  mind,  and 
listen  to  what  others  say  about  subjects  you  have 
studied  but  recently.  Knowledge  and  timber  shouldn't 
be  much  used  till  they  are  seasoned. 

Physiologists  and  metaphysicians  have  had  their 

attention  turned  a  good  deal  of  late  to  the  automatic 
and  involuntary  actions  of  the  mind.  Put  an  idea  into 
your  intelligence  and  leave  it  there  an  hour,  a  day,  a 
year  without  ever  having  occasion  to  refer  to  it. 
When,  at  last,  you  return  to  it,  you  do  not  find  it  as 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  115 

it  was  when  acquired.  It  has  domiciliated  itself  so  to 
speak — become  at  home — entered  into  relations  with 
your  other  thoughts,  and  integrated  itself  with  the 
whole  fabric  of  the  mind. — Or  take  a  simple  and 
familiar  example  ;  Dr  Carpenter  has  adduced  it.  You 
forget  a  name,  in  conversation — go  on  talking  without 
making  an  effort  to  recall  it — and  presently  the  mind 
evolves  it  by  its  own  involuntary  and  unconscious 
action,  while  you  were  pursuing  another  train  of 
thought,  and  the  name  rises  of  itself  to  your  lips. 

There  are  some  curious  observations  I  should  like  to 
make  about  the  mental  machinery,  but  I  think  we  are 
getting  rather  didactic. 

1  should  be  gratified  if  Benjamin  Franklin  would 

let  me  know  something  of  his  progress  in  the  French 
language.  I  rather  liked  that  exercise  he  read  us  the 
other  day,  though  I  must  confess  I  should  hardly  dare 
to  translate  it,  for  fear  some  people  in  a  remote  city 
where  I  once  lived  might  think  I  was  drawing  their 
portraits. 

Yes,  Paris  is  a  famous  place  for  societies.     I 

don't  know  whether  the  piece  I  mentioned  from  the 
French  author  was  intended  simply  as  Natural  History, 
or  whether  there  was  riot  a  little  malice  in  his  descrip- 
tion. At  any  rate,  when  I  gave  my  translation  to  B. 
F.  to  turn  back  again  into  French,  one  reason  was 
that  I  thought  it  would  sound  a  little  bald  in  English, 
and  some  people  might  think  it  was  meant  to  have 
some  local  bearing  or  other — which  the  author,  of 
course,  didn't  mean,  inasmuch  as  he  could  not 
be  acquainted  with  anything  on  this  side  of  the 
water. 

[The  above  remarks  were  addressed  to  the  school- 
mistress, to  whom  I  handed  the  paper  after  looking 
it  over.  The  divinity-student  came  and  read  over  her 
shoulder — very  curious  apparently,  but  his  eyes  wan- 
dered, I  thought.  Fancying  that  her  breathing  was 
somewhat  hurried  and  high,  or  thoracic,  as  my  friend 
the  Professor  calls  it,  I  watched  her  a  little  more 
closely. — It  is  none  of  my  business. — After  all,  it  is 


116  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

the  imponderables  that  move  the  world — heat,  electri- 
city, love. — Uabet  /] 

This  is  the  piece  that  Benjamin  Franklin  made  into 
boarding-school  French,  such  as  you  see  here ;  don't 
expect  too  much  ; — the  mistakes  give  a  relish  to  it,  I 
think. 

LES   SOCI&TES   POLYPHYSIOPHILOSOPHIQUES 

Ces  Societes  la  sont  une  Institution  pour  suppleer 
aux  besoins  d 'esprit  et  de  coeur  de  ces  individus  qui  ont 
survecu  a  leurs  emotions  a  1'egard  du  beau  sexe,  et  qui 
n'ont  pas  la  distraction  de  1'habitude  de  boire. 

Pour  devenir  membre  d'une  de  ces  Societes,  on  doit 
avoir  le  moins  de  cheveux  possible.  S'il  y  en  reste 
plusieurs  qui  resistent  aux  depilatoires  naturelles  et 
autres,  on  doit  avoir  quelques  connaissances,  n'importe 
dans  quel  genre.  Des  le  moment  qu'on  ouvre  la  porte 
de  la  Societe,  on  a  un  grand  interet  dans  toutes  les 
choses  dont  on  ne  sait  rien.  Ainsi,  un  microscopiste 
demontre  un  nouveau  flexor  du  tarse  d'un  melolontha 
vulgaris.  Douze  savans  improvises,  portans  des  besides, 
et  qui  ne  connaissent  rien  des  insectes,  si  ce  n'est  les 
morsures  du  culex,  se  precipitent  sur  1'instrument,  et 
voient — une  grande  bufle  d'air,  dont  ils  s'emerveillen't 
avec  effusion.  Ce  qui  est  un  spectacle  plein  d'instruc- 
tion — pour  ceux  qui  ne  sont  pas  de  ladite  Socie't^. 
Tous  les  membres  regardent  les  chimistes  en  particulier 
avec  un  air  d'intelligence  parfaite  pendant  qu'ils  prou- 
vent  dans  un  discours  d'une  demiheure  que  O6  N3  II5  C6, 
etc.,  font  quelque  chose  qui  n'est  bonne  a  rien,  mais 
qui  probablement  a  une  odeur  tres  desagreable,  selon 
1'habitude  des  produits  chimiques.  Apres  cela  vient  un 
mathematicien  qui  vous  bourre  avec  des  a  +  b  et  vous 
rapporte  enfin  un  x+y,  dont  vous  n'avez  pas  besoin  et 
qui  ne  change  nullement  vos  relations  avec  la  vie.  Un 
naturaliste  vous  parle  des  formations  speeiales  des  anim- 
aux  excessivement  inconnus,  dont  vous  n'avez  jamais 
eoup9onne  1'existence.  Ainsi  il  vous  decrit  lesfollicules 
de  fappendix  vermiformis  d'un  dzigguetai.  Vous  ne 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  117 

savez  pas  ce  que  c'est  qu'un  follicule.  Vous  ne  savez 
pas  ce  que  c'est  qu'un  appendix  vermiformis.  Vous 
n'avez  jamais  entendu  parler  du  dzigguetai.  Ainsi  vous 
gagnez  toutes  ces  connaissances  a  la  fois,  qui  s'attachent 
a  votre  esprit  comme  1'eau  adhere  aux  plumes  d'un 
canard.  On  connait  toutes  les  langues  ex  officio  eii  de- 
venant  membre  d'une  de  ces  Societes.  Ainsi  quand  on 
entend  lire  un  Essai  sur  les  dialectes  Tchutchiens,  on 
comprend  tout  cela  de  suite,  et  s'instruit  enormement. 

II  y  a  deux  especes  d'individus  qu'on  trouve  toujours 
a  ces  Societes  :  1°  Le  membre  a  questions  ;  2°  Le  membre 
a  "Bylaws." 

La  question  est  une  specialite.  Celui  qui  en  fait 
metier  ne  fait  jamais  des  reponses.  La  question  est 
une  maniere  tres  commode  de  dire  les  choses  suivantes  : 
"  Me  voila !  Je  ne  suis  pas  fossil  moi, — je  respire  encore ! 
J'ai  des  ide'es, — voyez  mon  intelligence.  Vous  ne 
croyiez  pas,  vous  autres,  que  je  savais  quelque  chose  de 
cela  !  Ah,  nous  avons  un  peu  de  sagacite,  voyez  vous  ! 
Nous  ne  sommes  nullement  la  bete  qu'on  pense  !  " — Le 
faiseur  de  questions  donne  peu  d' attention  aux  rtponses 
qu'on  fait ;  ce  n'est  pas  la  dans  sa  spdcialite'. 

Le  membre  a  "Bylaws"  est  le  bouchon  de  toutes  les 
Emotions  mousseuses  et  genereuses  qui  se  montrent 
dans  la  Societe.  C'est  un  empereur  manque, — un  tyran 
a  la  troisieme  trituration.  C'est  un  esprit  dur,  borne, 
exact,  grand  dans  les  petitesses,  petit  dans  les  grandeurs, 
selon  le  mot  du  grand  Jefferson.  On  ne  1'aime  pas 
dans  la  Societe,  mais  on  le  respecte  et  on  le  craint.  II 
n'y  a  qu'un  mot  pour  ce  membre  audessus  de  "  Bylaws." 
Ce  mot  est  pour  lui  ce  que  1'Om  est  aux  Hindous. 
C'est  sa  religion ;  il  n'y  a  rien  audela.  Ce  mot  la 
c'est  la  CONSTITUTION  ! 

Lesdites  Societes  publient  des  feuilletons  de  terns  en 
terns.  On  les  trouve  abandonnes  a  sa  porte,  nus  comme 
des  enfans  nouveaun^s,  faute  de  membrane  cutanee,  ou 
meme  papyrace'e.  Si  on  aime  le  botanique,  on  y  trouve 
une  memoire  sur  les  coquilles ;  si  on  fait  des  etudes 
zoologiques,  on  trouve  un  grand  tas  de  q  V — 1,  ce  qui 
doit  etre  infiniment  plus  commode  que  les  encyclopedies. 


118  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

Ainsi  il  est  clair  comme  la  metaphysique  qu'on  doit 
devenir  membre  d'une  Societe  telle  que  nous  decrivous. 

Recette  pour  le  Depilatoire  Physiophilosophique. 

Chaux  vive  Ib.  ss.     Eau  bouillante  Oj. 

Depilez  avec.     Polissez  ensuite. 

1  told  the  boy  that  his  translation  into  French 

was  creditable  to  him  ;  and  some  of  the  company 
wishing  to  hear  what  there  was  in  the  piece  that  made 
me  smile,  I  turned  it  into  English  for  them,  as  well  as 
I  could,  on  the  spot. 

The  landlady's  daughter  seemed  to  be  much  amused 
by  the  idea  that  a  depilatory  could  take  the  place  of 
literary  and  scientific  accomplishments ;  she  wanted 
me  to  print  the  piece,  so  that  she  might  send  a  copy 
of  it  to  her  cousin  in  Mizzourah  ;  she  didn't  think  he'd 
have  to  do  anything  to  the  outside  of  his  head  to  get 
into  any  of  the  societies  ;  he  had  to  wear  a  wig  once, 
when  he  played  a  part  in  a  tabullo. 

No, — said  I, — I  shouldn't  think  of  printing  that  in 
English.  I'll  tell  you  why.  As  soon  as  you  get  a  few 
thousand  people  together  in  a  town,  there  is  somebody 
that  every  sharp  thing  you  say  is  sure  to  hit.  What 
if  a  thing  was  written  in  Paris  or  in  Pekin? — that 
makes  no  difference.  Everybody  in  those  cities,  or 
almost  everybody,  has  his  counterpart  here,  and  in  all 
large  places. — You  never  studied  averages  as  I  have  had 
occasion  to. 

I'll  tell  you  how  I  came  to  know  so  much  about 
averages.  There  was  one  season  when  I  was  lectur- 
ing, commonly,  five  evenings  in  the  week,  through 
most  of  the  lecturing  period.  1  soon  found,  as  most 
speakers  do,  that  it  was  pleasanter  to  work  one  lecture 
than  to  keep  several  in  hand. 

Don't  you  get  sick  to  death  of  one  lecture  ? — 

said  the  landlady's  daughter — who  had  a  new  dress  on 
that  day,  and  was  in  spirits  for  conversation. 

1  was  going  to  talk  about  averages, — I  said, — but  I 
have  no  objection  to  telling  you  about  lectures,  to  begin 
with. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  119 

A  new  lecture  always  has  a  certain  excitement  con- 
nected with  its  delivery.  One  thinks  well  of  it,  as  of 
most  things  fresh  from  his  mind.  After  a  few  deliveries 
of  it;  one  gets  tired  and  then  disgusted  with  its  repeti- 
tion. Go  on  delivering  it,  and  the  disgust  passes  off, 
until,  after  one  has  repeated  it  a  hundred  or  a  hundred 
and  fifty  times,  he  rather  enjoys  the  hundred  and  first 
or  hundred  and  fifty-first  time,  before  a  new  audience. 
But  this  is  on  one  condition — that  he  never  lays  the 
lecture  down  and  lets  it  cool.  If  he  does,  there  comes 
on  a  loathing  for  it  which  is  intense,  so  that  the  sight 
of  the  old  battered  manuscript  is  as  bad  as  sea- 
sickness. 

A  new  lecture  is  just  like  any  other  new  tool.  We 
use  it  for  a  while  with  pleasure.  Then  it  blisters  our 
hands,  and  we  hate  to  touch  it.  By-and-by  our  hands 
get  callous,  and  then  we  have  no  longer  any  sensitive- 
ness about  it.  But  if  we  give  it  up,  the  calluses 
disappear ;  and  if  we  meddle  with  it  again,  we  miss 
the  novelty  and  get  the  blisters. — The  story  is  often 
quoted  of  Whitefield,  that  he  said  a  sermon  was  good 
for  nothing  until  it  had  been  preached  forty  times. 
A  lecture  doesn't  begin  to  be  old  until  it  has  passed  its 
hundredth  delivery  ;  and  some,  I  think,  have  doubled, 
if  not  quadrupled,  that  number.  These  old  lectures 
are  a  man's  best ;  commonly,  they  improve  by  age, 
also, — like  the  pipes,  fiddles,  and  poems  I  told  you  of 
the  other  day.  One  learns  to  make  the  most  of  their 
strong  points  and  to  carry  off  their  weak  ones, — to  take 
out  the  really  good  things  which  don't  tell  on  the 
audience,  and  put  in  cheaper  things  that  do.  All  this 
degrades  him,  of  course,  but  it  improves  the  lecture 
for  general  delivery.  A  thoroughly  popular  lecture 
ought  to  have  nothing  in  it  which  five  hundred  people 
cannot  all  take  in  a  flash,  just  as  it  is  uttered. 

No,  indeed, — I  should  be  very  sorry  to  say 

anything  disrespectful  of  audiences.  I  have  been 
kindly  treated  by  a  great  many,  and  may  occasionally 
face  one  hereafter.  But  I  tell  you  the  average  intellect 
of  five  hundred  persons,  taken  as  they  come,  is  not 


120  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

very  high.  It  may  be  sound  and  safe,  so  far  as  it  goes, 
but  it  is  not  very  rapid  or  profound.  A  lecture  ought 
to  be  something  which  all  can  understand,  about 
something  which  interests  everybody.  I  think,  that, 
if  any  experienced  lecturer  gives  you  a  different  ac- 
count from  this,  it  will  probably  be  one  of  those 
eloquent  or  forcible  speakers  who  hold  an  audience  by 
the  charm  of  their  manner,  whatever  they  talk  about — 
even  when  they  don't  talk  very  well. 

But  an  average,  which  was  what  I  meant  to  speak 
about,  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  subjects  of 
observation  and  study.  It  is  awful  in  its  uniformity, 
in  its  automatic  necessity  of  action.  Two  communities 
of  ants  or  bees  are  exactly  alike  in  all  their  actions,  so 
far  as  we  can  see.  Two  lyceum  assemblies,  of  five 
hundred  each,  are  so  nearly  alike,  that  they  are 
absolutely  undistinguishable  in  many  cases  by  any 
definite  mark,  and  there  is  nothing  but  the  place  and 
time  by  which  one  can  tell  the  "  remarkably  intelligent 
audience  "  of  a  town  in  New  York  or  Ohio  from  one 
in  any  New  England  town  of  similar  size.  Of  course, 
if  any  principle  of  selection  has  come  in,  as  in  those 
special  associations  of  young  men  which  are  common 
in  cities,  it  deranges  the  uniformity  of  the  assemblage. 
But  let  there  be  no  such  interfering  circumstances, 
and  one  knows  pretty  well  even  the  look  the  audience 
will  have,  before  he  goes.  Front  seats  :  a  few  old 
folks, — shiny-headed, — slant  up  best  ear  towards  the 
speaker, — drop  off  asleep  after  a  while,  when  the  air 
begins  to  get  a  little  narcotic  with  carbonic  acid. 
Bright  women's  faces,  young  and  middle-aged,  a  little 
behind  these,  but  toward  the  front — (pick  out  the  best, 
and  lecture  mainly  to  that).  Here  and  there  a  counte- 
nance, sharp  and  scholarlike,  and  a  dozen  pretty 
female  ones  sprinkled  about.  An  indefinite  number  of 
pairs  of  young  people, — happy,  but  not  always  very 
attentive.  Boys,  in  the  background,  more  or  less 
quiet.  Dull  faces  here,  there, — in  how  many  places  ! 
I  don't  say  dull  people,  but  faces,  without  a  ray  of 
sympathy  or  a  movement  of  expression.  They  are 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  121 

what  kill  the  lecturer.  These  negative  faces,  with 
their  vacuous  eyes  and  stony  lineaments,  pump  and 
suck  the  warm  soul  out  of  him  ; — that  is  the  chief 
reason  why  lecturers  grow  so  pale  before  the  season  is 
over.  They  render  latent  any  amount  of  vital  caloric  ; 
they  act  on  our  minds  as  those  cold-blooded  creatures 
I  was  talking  about  act  on  our  hearts. 

Out  of  all  these  inevitable  elements  the  audience  is 
generated, — a  great  compound  vertebrate,  as  much 
like  fifty  others  you  have  seen  as  any  two  mammals 
of  the  same  species  are  like  each  other.  Each  audience 
laughs,  and  each  cries,  in  just  the  same  places  of  your 
lecture  ;  that  is,  if  you  make  one  laugh  or  cry,  you 
make  all.  Even  those  little  indescribable  movements 
which  a  lecturer  takes  cognizance  of,  just  as  a  driver 
notices  his  horse's  cocking  his  ears,  are  sure  to  come  in 
exactly  the  same  place  of  your  lecture  always.  I  de- 
clare to  you,  that,  as  the  monk  said  about  the  picture 
in  the  convent, — that  he  sometimes  thought  the  living 
tenants  were  the  shadows,  and  the  painted  figures  the 
realities, — I  have  sometimes  felt  as  if  I  were  a  wander- 
ing spirit,  and  this  great  unchanging  multivertebrate 
which  I  faced  night  after  night  was  one  ever-listening 
animal  which  writhed  along  after  me  wherever  I  fled, 
and  coiled  at  my  feet  every  evening,  turning  up  to  me 
the  same  sleepless  eyes  which  I  thought  I  had  closed 
with  my  last  drowsy  incantation  ! 

Oh  yes  !  A  thousand  kindly  and  courteous 

acts, — a  thousand  faces  that  melted  individually  out 
of  my  recollection  as  the  April  snow  melts,  but  only 
to  steal  away  and  find  the  beds  of  flowers  whose  roots 
are  memory,  but  which  blossom  in  poetry  and  dreams. 
I  am  not  ungrateful,  nor  unconscious  of  all  the  good 
feeling  and  intelligence  everywhere  to  be  met  with 
through  the  vast  parish  to  which  the  lecturer  ministers. 
But  when  I  set  forth,  leading  a  string  of  my  mind's 
daughters  to  market,  as  the  country-folk  fetch  in  their 
strings  of  horses — pardon  me,  that  was  a  coarse  fellow 
who  sneered  at  the  sympathy  wasted  on  an  unhappy 
lecturer,  as  if,  because  he  was  decently  paid  for  his 


122  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

services  he  had  therefore  sold  his  sensibilities.  Family 
men  get  dreadfully  homesick.  In  the  remote  and 
bleak  village  the  heart  returns  to  the  red  blaze  of  the 
logs  in  one's  fire-place  at  home, 

"  There  are  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play," — 

if  he  owns  any  youthful  savages,  — No,  the  world  has 
a  million  roosts  for  a  man,  but  only  one  nest. 

It  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  an  oracle  to  which  an 

appeal  is  always  made  in  all  discussions.  The  men  of 
facts  wait  their  turn  in  grim  silence,  with  that  slight 
tension  about  the  nostrils  which  the  consciousness  of 
carrying  a  "  settler  "  in  the  form  of  a  fact  or  a  revolver 
gives  the  individual  thus  armed.  When  a  person  is 
really  full  of  information,  and  does  not  abuse  it  to 
crush  conversation,  his  part  is  to  that  of  the  real 
talkers  what  the  instrumental  accompaniment  is  in  a 
trio  or  quartette  of  vocalists. 

What  do  I  mean  by  the  real  talkers  ? — Why, 

the  people  with  fresh  ideas,  of  course,  and  plenty  of 
good  warm  words  to  dress  them  in.  Facts  always 
yield  the  place  of  honour,  in  conversation,  to  thoughts 
about  facts  ;  but  if  a  false  note  is  uttered,  down  comes 
the  finger  on  the  key,  and  the  man  of  facts  asserts 
his  true  dignity.  I  have  known  three  of  these  men 
of  facts,  at  least,  who  were  always  formidable, — and 
one  of  them  was  tyrannical. 

Yes,  a  man  sometimes  makes  a  grand  appear- 
ance on  a  particular  occasion  ;  but  these  men  know 
something  about  almost  everything,  and  never  make 
mistakes. — He?  Veneers  in  first-rate  style.  The 
mahogany  scales  off  now  and  then  in  spots,  and  then 

you  see  the  cheap  light  stuff. — I  found very  fine 

in  conversational  information,  the  other  day  when  we 
were  in  company.  The  talk  ran  upon  mountains. 
He  was  wonderfully  well  acquainted  with  the  leading 
facts  about  the  Andes,  the  Apennines,  and  the  Appa- 
lachians ;  he  had  nothing  particular  to  say  about  Ararat, 
Ben  Nevis,  and  various  other  mountains  that  were 
mentioned.  By-and-by  some  Revolutionary  anecdote 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  123 

came  up,  and  he  showed  singular  familiarity  with  the 
lives  of  the  Adamses,  and  gave  many  details  relating 
to  Major  Andre.  A  point  of  Natural  History  being 
suggested,  he  gave  an  excellent  account  of  the  air- 
bladder  of  fishes.  He  was  very  full  upon  the  subject 
of  agriculture,  but  retired  from  the  conversation  when 
horticulture  was  introduced  in  the  discussion.  So  he 
seemed  well  acquainted  with  the  geology  of  anthracite, 
but  did  not  pretend  to  know  anything  of  other  kinds 
of  coal.  There  was  something  so  odd  about  the  extent 
and  limitations  of  his  knowledge,  that  I  suspected  all 
at  once  what  might  be  the  meaning  of  it,  and  waited 
till  I  got  an  opportunity. — Have  you  seen  the  "New 
American  Cyclopaedia?  said  I. — I  have,  he  replied; 
I  received  an  early  copy. — How  far  does  it  go? — He 
turned  red,  and  answered, — To  Araguay. — Oh,  said  I 
to  myself,  not  quite  so  far  as  Ararat ; — that  is  the 
reason  he  knew  nothing  about  it ;  but  he  must  have 
read  all  the  rest  straight  through,  and  if  he  can  re- 
member what  is  in  this  volume  until  he  has  read  all 
those  that  are  to  come,  he  will  know  more  than  1 
ever  thought  he  would. 

Since  1  had  this  experience,  I  hear  that  somebody 
else  has  related  a  similar  story.  1  didn't  borrow  it, 
for  all  that. — I  made  a  comparison  at  table  some 
time  since,  which  has  often  been  quoted  and  received 
many  compliments.  It  was  that  of  the  mind  of  a 
bigot  to  the  pupil  of  the  eye  :  the  more  light  you 
pour  on  it,  the  more  it  contracts.  The  simile  is  very 
obvious,  and,  I  suppose,  I  may  now  say  a  happy  one  ; 
for  it  has  just  been  shown  me  that  it  occurs  in  a 
Preface  to  certain  Political  Poems  of  Thomas  Moore's, 
published  long  before  my  remark  was  repeated.  When 
a  person  of  fair  character  for  literary  honesty  uses 
an  image  such  as  another  has  employed  before  him,  the 
presumption  is,  that  he  has  struck  upon  it  independently, 
or  unconsciously  recalled  it,  supposing  it  his  own. 

It  is  impossible  to  tell,  in  a  great  many  cases, 
whether  a  comparison  which  suddenly  suggests  itself 
is  a  new  conception  or  a  recollection.  I  told  you  the 


124  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

other  day  that  I  never  wrote  a  line  of  verse  that 
seemed  to  me  comparatively  good,  but  it  appeared 
old  at  once,  and  often  as  if  it  had  been  borrowed. 
But  I  confess  I  never  suspected  the  above  comparison 
of  being  old,  except  from  the  fact  of  its  obviousness. 
It  is  proper,  however,  that  I  proceed  by  a  formal 
instrument  to  relinquish  all  claim  to  any  property  in 
an  idea  given  to  the  world  at  about  the  time  when  I 
had  just  joined  the  class  in  which  Master  Thomas 
Moore  was  then  a  somewhat  advanced  scholar. 

I,  therefore,  in  full  possession  of  my  native  honesty, 
but  knowing  the  liability  of  all  men  to  be  elected  to 
public  office,  and  for  that  reason  feeling  uncertain 
how  soon  I  may  be  in  danger  of  losing  it,  do  hereby 
renounce  all  claim  to  being  -considered  the  first  per- 
son who  gave  utterance  to  a  certain  simile  or  compari- 
son referred  to  in  the  accompanying  documents,  and 
relating  to  the  pupil  of  the  eye  on  the  one  part  and 
the  mind  of  the  bigot  on  the  other.  I  hereby  relin- 
quish all  glory  and  profit,  and  especially  all  claims 
to  letters  from  autograph  collectors,  founded  upon 
my  supposed  property  in  the  above  comparison, — 
knowing  well,  that,  according  to  the  laws  of  literature, 
they  who  speak  first  hold  the  fee  of  the  thing  said. 
I  do  also  agree  that  all  Editors  of  Cyclopaedias  and 
Biographical  Dictionaries,  all  Publishers  of  Reviews 
and  Papers,  and  all  critics  writing  therein,  shall  be  at 
liberty  to  retract  or  qualify  any  opinion  predicated 
on  the  supposition  that  I  was  the  sole  and  undisputed 
author  of  the  above  comparison.  But,  inasmuch  as 
1  do  affirm  that  the  comparison  aforesaid  was  uttered 
by  me  in  the  firm  belief  that  it  was  new  and  wholly 
my  own,  and  as  I  have  good  reason  to  think  that  I 
had  never  seen  or  heard  it  when  first  expressed  by  me, 
and  as  it  is  well  known  that  different  persons  may  in- 
dependently utter  the  same  idea, — as  is  evinced  by 
that  familiar  line  from  Donatus, 

"  Pereant  illi  qui  ante  nos  nostra  dixerunt " — 
now,  therefore,  I  do  request  by  this  instrument  that 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  125 

all  well-disposed  persons  will  abstain  from  asserting 
or  implying  that  1  am  open  to  any  accusation  whatso- 
ever touching  the  said  comparison,  and,  if  they  have  so 
asserted  or  implied,  that  they  will  have  the  manliness 
forthwith  to  retract  the  same  assertion  or  insinuation. 

I  think  few  persons  have  a  greater  disgust  for 
plagiarism  than  myself.  If  I  had  even  suspected  that 
the  idea  in  question  was  borrowed,  I  should  have  dis- 
claimed originality,  or  mentioned  the  coincidence,  as 
I  once  did  in  a  case  where  I  had  happened  to  hit  on 
an  idea  of  Swift's. — But  what  shall  I  do  about  these 
verses  I  was  going  to  read  you  ?  I  am  afraid  that 
half  mankind  would  accuse  me  of  stealing  their 
thoughts,  if  I  printed  them.  I  am  convinced  that 
several  of  you,  especially  if  you  are  getting  a  little  on 
in  life,  will  recognise  some  of  these  sentiments  as 
having  passed  through  your  consciousness  at  some 
time.  I  can't  help  it, — it  is  too  late  now.  The 
verses  are  written,  and  you  must  have  them.  Listen, 
then,  and  you  shall  hear 

WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK 

That  age  was  older  once  than  now, 

In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 
Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow  ; 

That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  "  Good  old  days," 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 

That — mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child — 
The  "  best  of  women  "  each  has  known. 

Were  school-boys  ever  half  so  wild  ? 
How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown. 

That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest ; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 


126  THE  AUTOCRAT 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain, 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race, — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain, — 
That  ours  is  "  a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 

That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 
The  angels  hovering  overhead 

Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows, 
And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye 
And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door, 

They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 
"  Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more  !  " 

That  weakness  smoothed  the  path  of  sin, 
In  half  the  slips  our  youth  has  known  ; 

And  whatsoe'er  its  blame  has  been, 

That  Mercy  flowers  on  faults  outgrown. 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 
O'erhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 

Their  tablets  bold  with  what  we  think, 
Their  echoes  dumb  to  what  we  know ; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read, 
All  doubt  beyond,  all  fears  above, 

Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 
Can  burn  or  blot  it :  GOD  is  LOVE  ! 


VII 

[THIS  particular  record  is  noteworthy  principally  for 
containing  a  paper  by  my  friend,  the  Professor,  with  a 
poem  or  two  annexed  or  intercalated.  I  would  suggest 
to  young  persons  that  they  should  pass  over  it  for 
the  present,  and  read,  instead  of  it,  that  story  about 
the  young  man  who  was  in  love  with  the  young  lady, 
and  in  great  trouble  for  something  like  nine  pages, 
but  happily  married  on  the  tenth  page  or  thereabouts, 
which,  I  take  it  for  granted,  will  be  contained  in  the 
periodical  where  this  is  found,  unless  it  differ  from 
all  other  publications  of  the  kind.  Perhaps,  if  such 
young  people  will  lay  the  number  aside,  and  take  it 
up  ten  years,  or  a  little  more,  from  the  present  time, 
they  may  find  something  in  it  for  their  advantage. 
They  can't  possibly  understand  it  all  now.] 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  began  talking  with  me 
one  day  in  a  dreary  sort  of  way.  I  couldn't  get  at  the 
difficulty  for  a  good  while,  but  at  last  it  turned  out 
that  somebody  had  been  calling  him  an  old  man. — 
He  didn't  mind  his  students  calling  him  the  old  man, 
he  said.  That  was  a  technical  expression,  and  he 
thought  that  he  remembered  hearing  it  applied  to 
himself  when  he  was  about  twenty-five.  It  may  be 
considered  as  a  familiar  and  sometimes  endearing 
appellation.  An  Irish-woman  calls  her  husband  "  the 
old  man,"  and  he  returns  the  caressing  expression  by 
speaking  of  her  as  "  the  old  woman/3  But  now,  said 
he,  just  suppose  a  case  like  one  of  these.  A  young 
stranger  is  overheard  talking  of  you  as  a  very  nice 
old  gentleman.  A  friendly  and  genial  critic  speaks 
of  your  green  old  age  as  illustrating  the  truth  of  some 
axiom  you  had  uttered  with  reference  to  that  period 

127 


128  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

of  life.  What  /  call  an  old  man  is  a  person  with  a 
smooth,  shining  crown  and  a  fringe  of  scattered  white 
hairs,  seen  in  the  streets  on  sunshiny  days,  stooping 
as  he  walks,  bearing  a  cane,  moving  cautiously  and 
slowly  ;  telling  old  stories,  smiling  at  present  follies, 
living  in  a  narrow  world  of  dry  habits  ;  one  that 
remains  waking  when  others  have  dropped  asleep,  and 
keeps  a  little  night-lamp  flame  of  life  burning  year 
after  year,  if  the  lamp  is  not  upset,  and  there  is  only 
a  careful  hand  held  round  it  to  prevent  the  puffs  of 
wind  from  blowing  the  flame  out.  That's  what  I  call 
an  old  man. 

Now,  said  the  Professor,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  1  have  got  to  that  yet?  Why,  bless  you,  I  am 
several  years  short  of  the  time  when — [I  knew  what 
was  coming,  and  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing ; 
twenty  years  ago  he  used  to  quote  it  as  one  of  those 
absurd  speeches  men  of  genius  will  make,  and  now  he 
is  going  to  argue  from  it] — several  years  short  of  the 
time  when  Balzac  says  that  men  are — most — you 
know — dangerous  to — the  hearts  of — in  short,  most 
to  be  dreaded  by  duennas  that  have  charge  of  sus- 
ceptible females. — What  age  is  that?  said  I,  statistic- 
ally.— Fifty-two  years,  answered  the  Professor. — 
Balzac  ought  to  know,  said  I,  if  it  is  true  that  Goethe 
said  of  him,  that  each  of  his  stories  must  have  been 
dug  out  of  a  woman's  heart.  But  fifty-two  is  a  high 
figure. 

Stand  in  the  light  of  the  window,  Professor,  said  I. 
— The  Professor  took  up  the  desired  position. — You 
have  white  hairs,  I  said. — Had  'em  any  time  these 
twenty  years,  said  the  Professor. — And  the  crow's- 
foot,  pes  anserinus,  rather. — The  Professor  smiled,  as  I 
wanted  him  to,  and  the  folds  radiated  like  the  ridges 
of  a  half-opened  fan,  from  the  outer  corner  of  the  eyes 
to  the  temples. — And  the  calipers,  said  I. — What  are 
the  calipers?  he  asked,  curiously. — Why,  the  paren- 
theses, said  I. — Parentheses  said  the  Professor:  what's 
that? — Why,  look  in  the  glass  when  you  are  disposed 
to  laugh,  and  see  if  your  mouth  isn't  framed  in  a 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  129 

couple  of  crescent  lines, — so,  my  boy  (  ). — It's  all 
nonsense,  said  the  Professor  ;  just  look  at  my  biceps  ; 
— and  he  began  pulling  off  his  coat  to  show  me  his 
arm.  Be  careful,  said  I ;  you  can't  bear  exposure  to 
the  air  at  your  time  of  life,  as  you  could  once. — I  will 
box  with  you,  said  the  Professor,  row  with  you,  walk 
with  you,  ride  with  you,  swim  with  you,  or  sit  at 
table  with  you,  for  fifty  dollars  a  side. — Pluck  sur- 
vives stamina,  I  answered. 

The  Professor  went  off  a  little  out  of  humour.  A 
few  weeks  afterwards  he  came  in,  looking  very  good- 
natured,  and  brought  me  a  paper,  which  I  have  here, 
and  fro:^  which  I  shall  read  you  some  portions,  if  you 
don't  object.  He  had  been  thinking  the  matter  over, 
he  said, — had  read  Cicero  "De  Senectute,"  and  made  up 
his  mind  to  meet  old  age  half  way.  These  were  some  of 
his  reflections  that  he  had  written  down ;  so  here  you  have 

THE  PROFESSOR'S  PAPER 

There  is  no  doubt  when  old  age  begins.  The 
human  body  is  a  furnace  which  keeps  in  blast  three- 
score years  and  ten,  more  or  less.  It  burns  about 
three  hundred  pounds  of  carbon  a  year  (besides  other 
fuel),  when  in  fair  working  order,  according  to  a  great 
chemist's  estimate.  When  the  fire  slackens,  life 
declines  ;  when  it  goes  out,  we  are  dead. 

It  has  been  shown  by  some  noted  French  experi- 
menters, that  the  amount  of  combustion  increases  up 
to  about  the  thirtieth  year,  remains  stationary  to  about 
forty-five,  and  then  diminishes.  This  last  is  the  point 
where  old  age  starts  from.  The  great  fact  of  physical 
life  is  the  perpetual  commerce  with  the  elements,  and 
the  fire  is  the  measure  of  it. 

About  this  time  of  life,  if  food  is  plenty  where  you 
live, — for  that,  you  know,  regulates  matrimony, — you 
may  be  expecting  to  find  yourself  a  grandfather  some 
fine  morning :  a  kind  of  domestic  felicity  that  gives 
one  a  cool  shiver  of  delight  to  think  of,  as  among  the 
not  remotely  possible  events. 


130  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

I  don't  mind  much  those  slipshod  lines  Dr  Johnson 
wrote  to  Thrale,  telling  her  about  life's  declining  from 
thirty-five ;  the  furnace  is  in  full  blast  for  ten  years 
longer,  as  I  have  said.  The  Romans  came  very  near 
the  mark  ;  their  age  of  enlistment  reached  from  seven- 
teen to  forty-six  years. 

What  is  the  use  of  fighting  against  the  seasons,  or 
the  tides,  or  the  movements  of  the  planetary  bodies,  or 
this  ebb  in  the  wave  of  life  that  flows  through  us  ?  We 
are  old  fellows  from  the  moment  the  fire  begins  to  go 
out.  Let  us  always  behave  like  gentlemen  when  we 
are  introduced  to  new  acquaintance. 

Incipit  Allegoria  Senectutis 

Old  Age,  this  is  Mr  Professor ;  Mr  Professor,  this 
is  Old  Age. 

Old  Age. — Mr  Professor,  I  hope  to  see  you  well. 
I  have  known  you  for  some  time,  though  I  think  you 
did  not  know  me.  Shall  we  walk  down  the  street  to- 
gether? 

Professor  (drawing  back  a  little).  — We  can  talk 
more  quietly  perhaps  in  my  study.  Will  you  tell  me 
how  it  is  you  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  everybody 
you  are  introduced  to,  though  he  evidently  considers 
you  an  entire  stranger  ? 

Old  Age. — I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  force  myself 
upon  a  person's  recognition  until  I  have  known  him 
at  least  five  years. 

Professor.  —  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have 
known  me  so  long  as  that  ? 

Old  Age. — I  do.  I  left  my  card  on  you  longer  ago 
than  that,  but  I  am  afraid  you  never  read  it ;  yet  I  see 
you  have  it  with  you. 

Professor. — Where  ? 

Old  Age.  —  There  between  your  eyebrows,  —  three 
straight  lines  running  up  and  down  ;  all  the  probate 
courts  know  that  token, — "Old  Age,  his  mark.''  Put 
your  forefinger  on  the  inner  end  of  one  eyebrow,  and 
your  middle  finger  on  the  inner  end  of  the  other  eye- 
brow ;  now  separate  the  fingers,  and  you  will  smooth 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  131 

out  my  sign-manual :  that's  the  way  you  used  to  look 
before  I  left  my  card  on  you. 

Professor. — What  message  do  people  generally  send 
back  when  you  first  call  on  them  r 

Old  Age. — Not  at  home.  Then  I  leave  my  card 
and  go.  Next  year  I  call ;  get  the  same  answer ; 
leave  another  card.  So  for  five  or  six, — some- 
times ten  years  or  more.  At  last,  if  they  don't  let 
me  in,  I  break  in  through  the  front  door  or  the 
windows. 

We  talked  together  in  this  way  some  time.  Then 
Old  Age  said  again, — Come,  let  us  walk  down  the 
street  together, — and  offered  me  a  cane,  an  eye-glass, 
a  tippet,  and  a  pair  of  over-shoes. — No,  much  obliged 
to  you,  said  I.  I  don't  want  those  things,  and  I  had 
a  little  rather  talk  with  you  here,  privately,  in  my 
study.  So  I  dressed  myself  up  in  a  jaunty  way  and 
walked  out  alone ; — got  a  fall,  caught  a  cold,  was  laid 
up  with  a  lumbago,  and  had  time  to  think  over  this 
whole  matter. 

Explicit  Allegoria  Senectutis 

We  have  settled  when  old  age  begins.  Like  all 
Nature's  processes,  it  is  gentle  and  gradual  in  its  ap- 
proaches, strewed  with  allusions,  and  all  its  little  griefs 
soothed  by  natural  sedatives.  But  the  iron  hand  is 
not  less  irresistible  because  it  wears  the  velvet  glove. 
The  buttonwood  throws  off  its  bark  in  large  flakes, 
which  one  may  find  lying  at  its  foot,  pushed  out,  and 
at  last  pushed  off,  by  that  tranquil  movement  from 
beneath,  which  is  too  slow  to  be  seen  but  too  power- 
ful to  be  arrested.  One  finds  them  always,  but  one 
rarely  sees  them  fall.  So  it  is  our  youth  drops  from 
us, — scales  off,  sapless  and  lifeless,  and  lays  bare  the 
tender  and  immature  fresh  growth  of  old  age. 
Looked  at  collectively,  the  changes  of  old  age  appear 
as  a  series  of  personal  insults  and  indignities,  ter- 
minating at  last  in  death,  which  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
has  called  ' '  the  very  disgrace  and  ignominy  of  our 
natures." 


132  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

My  lady's  cheek  can  boast  no  more 
The  cranberry  white  and  pink  it  wore  ; 
And  where  her  shining  locks  divide, 
The  parting  line  is  all  too  wide 

No,  no, — this  will  never  do.     Talk  about  men,  if  you 
will,  but  spare  the  poor  women. 

We  have  a  brief  description  of  seven  stages  of  life 
by  a  remarkably  good  observer.  It  is  very  presump- 
tuous to  attempt  to  add  to  it,  yet  I  have  been  struck 
with  the  fact  that  life  admits  of  a  natural  analysis  into 
no  less  than  fifteen  distinct  periods.  Taking  the  five 
primary  divisions,  infancy,  childhood,  youth,  manhood, 
old  age,  each  of  these  has  its  own  three  periods  of 
immaturity,  complete  development,  and  decline.  I 
recognise  an  old  baby  at  once, — with  its  "  pipe  and 
mug"  (a  stick  of  candy  and  a  porringer), — so  does 
everybody  ;  and  an  old  child  shedding  its  milk-teeth 
is  only  a  little  prototype  of  the  old  man  shedding  his 
permanent  ones.  Fifty  or  thereabouts  is  only  the 
childhood,  as  it  were,  of  old  age ;  the  graybeard 
youngster  must  be  weaned  from  his  late  suppers  now. 
So  you  will  see  that  you  have  to  make  fifteen  stages 
at  any  rate,  and  that  it  would  not  be  hard  to  make 
twenty-five ;  five  primary,  each  with  five  secondary 
divisions. 

The  infancy  and  childhood  of  commencing  old  age 
have  the  same  ingenuous  simplicity  and  delightful 
unconsciousness  about  them  as  the  first  stage  of  the 
earlier  periods  of  life  shows.  The  great  delusion  of 
mankind  is  in  supposing  that  to  be  individual  and 
exceptional  which  is  universal  and  according  to  law. 
A  person  is  always  startled  when  he  hears  himself 
seriously  called  an  old  man  for  the  first  time. 

Nature  gets  us  out  of  youth  into  manhood,  as  sailors 
are  hurried  on  board  of  vessels, — in  a  state  of  intoxica- 
tion. We  are  hustled  into  maturity  reeling  with  our 
passions  and  imaginations,  and  we  have  drifted  far 
away  from  port  before  we  awake  out  of  our  illusions. 
But  to  carry  us  out  of  maturity  into  old  age,  without 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  133 

our  knowing  where  we  are  going,  she  drugs  us  with 
strong  opiates,  and  so  we  stagger  along  with  wide-open 
eyes  that  see  nothing  until  snow  enough  has  fallen  on 
our  heads  to  rouse  our  comatose  brains  out  of  their 
stupid  trances. 

There  is  one  mark  of  age  that  strikes  me  more  than 
any  of  the  physical  ones  ; — I  mean  the  formation  of 
Habits.  An  old  man  who  shrinks  into  himself  falls 
into  ways  that  become  as  positive  and  as  much  beyond 
the  reach  of  outside  influences  as  if  they  were  governed 
by  clock-work.  The  animal  functions,  as  the  physi- 
ologists call  them,  in  distinction  from  the  organic, 
tend,  in  the  process  of  deterioration  to  which  age  and 
neglect  united  gradually  lead  them,  to  assume  the 
periodical  or  rhythmical  type  of  movement.  Every 
man's  heart  (this  organ  belongs,  you  know,  to  the 
organic  system)  has  a  regular  mode  of  action  ;  but  I 
know  a  great  many  men  whose  brains,  and  all  their 
voluntary  existence  flowing  from  their  brains,  have  a 
systole  and  diastole  as  regular  as  that  of  the  heart  it- 
self. Habit  is  the  approximation  of  the  animal  system 
to  the  organic.  It  is  a  confession  of  failure  in  the 
highest  function  of  being,  which  involves  a  perpetual 
self-determination,  in  full  view  of  all  existing  circum- 
stances. But  habit,  you  see,  is  an  action  in  present 
circumstances  from  past  motives.  It  is  substituting  a 
vis  a  tergo  for  the  evolution  of  living  force. 

When  a  man,  instead  of  burning  up  three  hundred 
pounds  of  carbon  a  year,  has  got  down  to  two  hundred 
and  fifty,  it  is  plain  enough  he  must  economize  force 
somewhere.  Now  habit  is  a  labour-saving  invention 
which  enables  a  man  to  get  along  with  less  fuel, — that 
is  all ;  for  fuel  is  force,  you  know,  just  as  much  in  the 
page  I  am  writing  for  you  as  in  the  locomotive  or  the 
legs  that  carry  it  to  you.  Carbon  is  the  same  thing, 
whether  you  call  it  wood,  or  coal,  or  bread  and  cheese. 
A  reverend  gentleman  demurred  to  this  statement, — 
as  if,  because  combustion  •  is  asserted  to  be  the  sine 
qua  non  of  thought,  therefore  thought  is  alleged  to  be 
a  purely  chemical  process.  Facts  of  chemistry  are 


134  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

one  thing,  I  told  him,  and  facts  of  consciousness 
another.  It  can  be  proved  to  him,  by  a  very  simple 
analysis  of  some  of  his  spare  elements,  that  every 
Sunday,  when  he  does  his  duty  faithfully,  he  uses  up 
more  phosphorus  out  of  his  brain  and  nerves  than  on 
ordinary  days.  But  then  he  had  his  choice  whether 
to  do  his  duty,  or  to  neglect  it,  and  save  his  phosphorus 
and  other  combustibles. 

It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  formation  of  habits 
ought  naturally  to  be,  as  it  is,  the  special  characteristic 
of  age.  As  for  the  muscular  powers,  they  pass  their 
maximum  long  before  the  time  when  the  true  decline 
of  life  begins,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  experience  of 
the  ring.  A  man  is  "  stale,"  I  think,  in  their  language, 
soon  after  thirty, — often,  no  doubt,  much  earlier,  as 
gentlemen  of  the  pugilistic  profession  are  exceedingly 
apt  to  keep  their  vital  fire  burning  with  the  blower  up. 

So  far  without  Tully.  But  in  the  meantime  I 

have  been  reading  the  treatise,  "  De  Senectute."  It 
is  not  long,  but  a  leisurely  performance.  The  old 
gentleman  was  sixty-three  years  of  age  when  he 
addressed  it  to  his  friend  T.  Pomponius  Atticus,  Esq., 
a  person  of  distinction,  some  two  or  three  years  older. 
We  read  it  when  we  are  schoolboys,  forget  all  about 
it  for  thirty  years,  and  then  take  it  up  again  by  a 
natural  instinct, — provided  always  that  we  read  Latin 
as  we  drink  water,  without  stopping  to  taste  it,  as  all 
of  us  who  ever  learned  it  at  school  or  college  ought 
to  do. 

Cato  is  the  chief  speaker  in  the  dialogue.  A  good 
deal  of  it  is  what  would  be  called  in  vulgar  phrase 
"slow."  It  unpacks  and  unfolds  incidental  illustra- 
tions which  a  modern  writer  would  look  at  the  back 
of,  and  toss  each  to  its  pigeon-hole.  I  think  ancient 
classics  and  ancient  people  are  alike  in  the  tendency 
to  this  kind  of  expansion. 

An  old  doctor  came  to  me  once  (this  is  literal  fact) 
with  some  contrivance  or  other  for  people  with  broken 
kneepans.  As  the  patient  would  be  confined  for  a 
good  while,  he  might  find  it  dull  work  to  sit  with  his 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  135 

hands  in  his  lap.  Reading,  the  ingenious  inventor 
suggested,  would  be  an  agreeable  mode  of  passing  the 
time.  He  mentioned,  in  his  written  account  of  his 
contrivance,  various  works  that  might  amuse  the  weary 
hour.  I  remember  only  three, — Don  Quixote,  Tom 
Jones,  and  Watts  on  the  Mind. 

It  is  not  generally  understood  that  Cicero's  essay 
was  delivered  as  a  lyceum  lecture  (concio  popularis), 
at  the  Temple  of  Mercury.  The  journals  (papyri) 
of  the  day  ("  Tempora  Quotidiana,"  —  "  Tribunus 
Quirinalis,'' — "  Prseco  Romanus,"  and  the  rest)  gave 
abstracts  of  it,  one  of  which  I  have  translated  and 
modernized,  as  being  a  substitute  for  the  analysis  1 
intended  to  make. 

IV.  Kal.  Mart 

The  lecture  at  the  Temple  of  Mercury,  last  evening, 
was  well  attended  by  the  elite  of  our  great  city.  Two 
hundred  thousand  sestertia  were  thought  to  have  been 
represented  in  the  house.  The  doors  were  besieged 
by  a  mob  of  shabby  fellows  (illotum  vulgus),  who  were 
at  length  quieted  after  two  or  three  had  been  some- 
what roughly  handled  (gladio  jugulati).  The  speaker 
was  the  well-known  Mark  Tully,  Esq., — the  subject, 
Old  Age.  Mr  T.  has  a  lean  and  scraggy  person,  with 
a  very  unpleasant  excrescence  upon  his  nasal  feature, 
from  which  his  nickname  of  chick-pea  [Cicero]  is  said 
by  some  to  be  derived.  As  a  lecturer  is  public  property, 
we  may  remark  that  his  outer  garment  (toga)  was  of 
cheap  stuff  and  somewhat  worn,  and  that  his  general 
style  and  appearance  of  dress  and  manner  (habitus, 
vestitusque)  were  somewhat  provincial. 

The  lecture  consisted  of  an  imaginary  dialogue 
between  Cato  and  Laelius.  We  found  the  first  portion 
rather  heavy,  and  retired  a  few  moments  for  refresh- 
ment (pocula  qucKdam  mni). — All  want  to  reach  old  age, 
says  Cato,  and  grumble  when  they  get  it ;  therefore 
they  are  donkeys. — The  lecturer  will  allow  us  to  say 
that  he  is  the  donkey  ;  we  know  we  shall  grumble  at  old 
age,  but  we  want  to  live  through  youth  and  manhood, 
in  spite  of  the  troubles  we  shall  groan  over. — There 


136  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

was  considerable  prosing  as  to  what  old  age  can  do  and 
can't. — True,  but  not  new.  Certainly,  old  folks  can't 
jump, — break  the  necks  of  their  thigh-bones  (J'emorum 
cervices)  if  they  do  ;  can't  crack  nuts  with  their  teeth  ; 
can't  climb  a  greased  pole  (malum  inunctum  scandere 
non  possunt)  ;  but  they  can  tell  old  stories  and  give 
you  good  advice — if  they  know  what  you  have  made 
up  your  mind  to  do  when  you  ask  them. — All  this  is 
well  enough,  but  won't  set  the  Tiber  on  fire  (Tiberim 
accendere  nequaquam  potesf). 

There  were  some  clever  things  enough  (dicta  hand 
inepta),  a  few  of  which  are  worth  reporting. — Old 
people  are  accused  of  being  forgetful ;  but  they  never 
forget  where  they  have  put  their  money. — Nobody  is 
so  old  he  doesn't  think  he  can  live  a  year. — The 
lecturer  quoted  an  ancient  maxim, — Grow  old  early,  if 
you  would  be  old  long, — but  disputed  it. — Authority, 
he  thought,  was  the  chief  privilege  of  age. —  It  is  not 
great  to  have  money,  but  fine  to  govern  those  that 
have  it. — Old  age  begins  at  forty-six  years,  according 
to  the  common  opinion. — It  is  not  every  kind  of  old 
age  or  of  wine  that  grows  sour  with  time. — Some 
excellent  remarks  were  made  on  immortality,  but 
mainly  borrowed  from  and  credited  to  Plato. — Several 
pleasing  anecdotes  were  told. — Old  Milo,  champion  of 
the  heavy  weights  in  his  day,  looked  at  his  arms  and 
whimpered,  They  are  dead.  Not  so  dead  as  you,  you 
old  fool, — says  Cato  ; — you  never  were  good  for  any- 
thing but  for  your  shoulders  and  flanks. — Pisistratus 
asked  Solon  what  made  him  dare  to  be  so  obstinate. 
Old  age,  said  Solon. 

The  lecture  was  on  the  whole  acceptable,  and  a 
credit  to  our  culture  and  civilization. — The  reporter 
goes  on  to  state  that  there  will  be  no  lecture  next 
week,  on  account  of  the  expected  combat  between  the 
bear  and  the  barbarian.  Betting  (sponsio)  two  to 
one  (duo  ad  unum)  on  the  bear. 

After  all,  the  most  encouraging  things  I  find 

in  the  treatise  "  De  Senectute"  are  the  stories  of  men 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  137 

who  have  found  new  occupations  when  growing  old, 
or  kept  up  their  common  pursuits  in  the  extreme 
period  of  life.  Cato  learned  Greek  when  he  was  old, 
and  speaks  of  wishing  to  learn  the  fiddle,  or  some 
such  instrument  (fidibus),  after  the  example  of  Socrates. 
Solon  learned  something  new  every  day  in  his  old  age, 
as  he  gloried  to  proclaim.  Cyrus  pointed  out  with 
pride  and  pleasure  the  trees  he  had  planted  with  his 
own  hand.  [I  remember  a  pillar  on  the  Duke  of 
Northumberland's  estate  at  Alnwick,  with  an  inscription 
in  similar  words,  if  not  the  same.  That,  like  other 
country  pleasures,  never  wears  out.  None  is  too  rich, 
none  too  poor,  none  too  young,  none  too  old  to  enjoy 
it.]  There  is  a  New  England  story  I  have  heard  more 
to  the  point,  however,  than  any  of  Cicero's.  A  young 
farmer  was  urged  to  set  out  some  apple  trees. — No, 
said  he,  they  are  too  long  growing,  and  I  don't  want 
to  plant  for  other  people.  The  young  farmer's  father 
was  spoken  to  about  it,  but  he,  with  better  reason, 
alleged  that  apple  trees  were  slow  and  life  was  fleeting. 
At  last  some  one  mentioned  it  to  the  old  grandfather 
of  the  young  farmer.  He  had  nothing  else  to  do, — so 
he  stuck  in  some  trees.  He  lived  long  enough  to 
drink  barrels  of  cider  made  from  the  apples  that  grew 
on  those  trees. 

As  for  myself,  after  visiting  a  friend  lately — [do 
remember  all  the  time  that  this  is  the  Professor's 
paper.] — I  satisfied  myself  that  I  had  better  concede 
the  fact  that  my  contemporaries  are  not  so  young  as 
they  have  been, — and  that, — awkward  as  it  is, — science 
and  history  agree  in  telling  me  that  I  can  claim  the 
immunities  and  must  own  the  humiliations  of  the  early 
stage  of  senility.  Ah  !  but  we  have  all  gone  down  the 
hill  together.  The  dandies  of  my  time  have  split  their 
waistbands  and  taken  to  high,  low  shoes.  The  beauties 
of  my  recollections — where  are  they  ?  They  have  run 
the  gauntlet  of  years  as  well  as  I.  First  the  years 
pelted  them  with  red  roses  till  their  cheeks  were  all  on 
fire.  By-and-by  they  began  throwing  white  roses,  and 
that  morning  flush  passed  away.  At  last  one  of  the 


138  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

years  threw  a  snow-ball,  and  after  that  no  year  let  the 
poor  girls  pass  without  throwing  snow-balls.  And 
then  came  rougher  missiles, — ice  and  stones  ;  and  from 
time  to  time  an  arrow  whistled,  and  down  went  one  of 
the  poor  girls.  So  there  are  but  few  left  ;  and  we 
don't  call  those  few  girls,  but 

Ah  me  !  here  am  I  groaning,  just  as  the  old  Greek 
sighed  Afaf !  and  the  old  Roman,  Eheu! — 1  have  no 
doubt  we  should  die  of  shame  and  grief  at  the  indig- 
nities offered  us  by  age,  if  it  were  not  that  we  see  so 
many  others  as  badly  or  worse  off  than  ourselves. 
We  always  compare  ourselves  with  our  contempo- 
raries. 

[I  was  interrupted  in  my  reading  just  here.  Before 
I  began  at  the  next  breakfast,  I  read  them  these 
verses  ; — 1  hope  you  will  like  them,  and  get  a  useful 
lesson  from  them.] 

THE  LAST  BLOSSOM 

Though  young  no  more  we  still  would  dream 

Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles  ; 
The  leagues  of  light  to  greybeards  seem 

Shorter  than  boyhood's  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprica  ? 

It  played  with  Goethe's  silvered  hair, 
And  many  a  Holy  Father's  "  niece  " 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 
To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 

We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 

Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 

We  see  the  Patriarch's  wintry  face, 

The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow, 
And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 

As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  139 

Tranced  in  her  Lord's  Olympian  smile 

His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies, — 
The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile 

With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 

Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 
And  Earth's  brown,  clinging  lips  impress 

The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 

The  morning  of  that  blissful  day 
When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met, 

And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 

A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain, 
Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 

Sweet  vision  waited  for  so  long  ! 
Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet's  cage 

Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song  ! 

She  blushes  !     Ah,  reluctant  maid, 

Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told  ! 

O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 

Floats  the  great  Leveller's  crimson  fold  I 

Come  to  my  arms  ! — love  heeds  not  years  ; 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows, — 
Ha  !  what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  ? 

A  voice  behind  me  uttered, — Rose  ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile, — but  not  for  me  ; 

Alas,  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 
Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see, — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind  ! 


140  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

As  to  giving  up  because  the  almanac  or  the  Family 
Bible  says  that  it  is  about  time  to  do  it,  I  have  no 
intention  of  doing  any  such  thing.  I  grant  you  that 
I  burn  less  carbon  than  some  years  ago.  I  see  people 
of  my  standing  really  good  for  nothing,  decrepit, 
effete,  la  levre  inferieure  deja  pendante,  with  what  little 
life  they  have  left  mainly  concentrated  in  their  epi- 
gastrium. But  as  the  disease  of  old  age  is  epidemic, 
endemic,  and  sporadic,  and  everybody  that  lives  long 
enough  is  sure  to  catch  it,  I  am  going  to  say,  for  the 
encouragement  of  such  as  need  it,  how  I  treat  the 
malady  in  my  own  case. 

First.  As  I  feel  that,  when  I  have  anything  to  do, 
there  is  less  time  for  it  than  when  I  was  younger,  I 
find  that  I  give  my  attention  more  thoroughly,  and 
use  my  time  more  economically  than  ever  before  ;  so 
that  I  can  learn  anything  twice  as  easily  as  in  my 
earlier  days.  I  am  not,  therefore,  afraid  to  attack  a 
new  study.  I  took  up  a  difficult  language  a  very  few 
years  ago  with  good  success,  and  think  of  mathematics 
and  metaphysics  by-and-by. 

Secondly.  I  have  opened  my  eyes  to  a  good  many 
neglected  privileges  and  pleasures  within  my  reach, 
and  requiring  only  a  little  courage  to  enjoy  them. 
You  may  well  suppose  it  pleased  me  to  find  that 
old  Cato  was  thinking  of  learning  to  play  the  fiddle, 
when  I  had  deliberately  taken  it  up  in  my  old  age, 
and  satisfied  myself  that  I  could  get  much  comfort,  if 
not  much  music,  out  of  it. 

Thirdly.  I  have  found  that  some  of  those  active 
exercises,  which  are  commonly  thought  to  belong  to 
young  folks  only,  may  be  enjoyed  at  a  much  later 
period. 

A  young  friend  has  lately  written  an  admirable 
article  in  one  of  the  journals,  entitled,  "  Saints  and 
their  Bodies/'  Approving  of  his  general  doctrines, 
and  grateful  for  his  records  of  personal  experience, 
I  cannot  refuse  to  add  my  own  experimental  confir- 
mation of  his  eulogy  of  one  particular  form  of  active 
exercise  and  amusement,  namely,  boating.  For  the 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  141 

past  nine  years,  I  have  rowed  about,  during  a  good 
part  of  the  summer,  on  fresh  or  salt  water.  My 
present  fleet  on  the  river  Charles  consists  of  three 
row-boats.  1.  A  small  flat-bottomed  skiff  of  the 
shape  of  a  flat-iron,  kept  mainly  to  lend  to  boys.  2. 
A  fancy  "dory"  for  two  pairs  of  sculls,  in  which  I 
sometimes  go  out  with  my  young  folks.  3.  My  own 
particular  water-sulky,  a  "  skeleton"  or  "shell"  race- 
boat,  twenty-two  feet  long,  with  huge  outriggers, 
which  boat  I  pull  with  ten-foot  sculls,  —  alone,  of 
course,  as  it  holds  but  one,  and  tips  him  out  if  he 
doesn't  mind  what  he  is  about.  In  this  I  glide 
around  the  Back  Bay,  down  the  stream,  up  the 
Charles  to  Cambridge  and  Watertown,  up  the  Mystic, 
round  the  wharves,  in  the  wake  of  steamboats,  which 
leave  a  swell  after  them  delightful  to  rock  upon ;  I 
linger  under  the  bridges, — those  "  caterpillar  bridges," 
as  my  brother  professor  so  happily  called  them  ;  rub 
against  the  black  sides  of  old  wood-schooners  ;  cool 
down  under  the  over-hanging  stern  of  some  tall 
Indiaman  ;  stretch  across  to  the  Navy- Yard,  where 
the  sentinel  warns  me  off  from  the  Ohio, — just  as  if 
I  should  hurt  her  by  lying  in  her  shadow ;  then 
strike  out  into  the  harbour,  where  the  water  gets  clear 
and  the  air  smells  of  the  ocean, — till  all  at  once  I 
remember,  that,  if  a  west  wind  blows  up  of  a  sudden, 
I  shall  drift  along  past  the  islands,  out  of  sight  of  the 
dear  old  State-house, — plate,  tumbler,  knife  and  fork 
all  waiting  at  home,  but  no  chair  drawn  up  at  the 
table, — all  the  dear  people  waiting,  waiting,  waiting, 
while  the  boat  is  sliding,  sliding,  sliding  into  the 
great  desert,  where  there  is  no  tree  and  no  fountain. 
As  I  don't  want  my  wreck  to  be  washed  up  on  one  of 
the  beaches  in  company  with  devil's-aprons,  bladder- 
weeds,  dead  horse-shoes,  and  bleached  crab-shells,  I 
turn  about  and  flap  my  long,  narrow  wings  for  home. 
When  the  tide  is  running  out  swiftly,  I  have  a  splen- 
did fight  to  get  through  the  bridges,  but  always  make 
it  a  rule  to  beat, — though  I  have  been  jammed  up 
into  pretty  tight  places  at  times.,  and  was  caught  once 


142  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

between  a  vessel  swinging  round  and  the  pier,  until 
our  bones  (the  boat's,  that  is),  cracked  as  if  we  had 
been  in  the  jaws  of  Behemoth.  Then  back  to  my 
moorings  at  the  foot  of  the  Common,  off  with  the 
rowing-dress,  dash  under  the  green  translucent  wave, 
return  to  the  garb  of  civilisation,  walk  through  my 
Garden,  take  a  look  at  my  elms  on  the  Common,  and, 
reaching  my  habitat,  in  consideration  of  my  advanced 
period  of  life,  indulge  in  the  Elysian  abandonment  of 
a  huge  recumbent  chair. 

When  I  have  established  a  pair  of  well-pronounced 
feathering  calluses  on  my  thumbs,  when  I  am  in  train- 
ing so  that  I  can  do  my  fifteen  miles  at  a  stretch 
without  coming  to  grief  in  any  way,  when  I  can  per- 
form my  mile  in  eight  minutes  or  a  little  less,  then  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  old  Time's  head  in  chancery,  and  could 
give  it  to  him  at  my  leisure. 

I  do  not  deny  the  attraction  of  walking.  I  have 
bored  this  ancient  city  through  and  through  in  my 
daily  travels,  until  I  know  it  as  an  old  inhabitant  of  a 
Cheshire  knows  his  cheese.  Why,  it  was  I  who,  in 
the  course  of  these  rambles,  discovered  that  remark- 
able avenue  called  Myrtle  Street,  stretching  in  one  long 
line  from  east  of  the  Reservoir  to  a  precipitous  and 
rudely-paved  cliff  which  looks  down  on  the  grim  abode 
of  Science,  and  beyond  it  to  the  far  hills  ;  a  promenade 
so  delicious  in  its  repose,  so  cheerfully  varied  with 

flimpses  down  the  northern  slope  into  busy  Cambridge 
treet  with  its  iron  river  of  the  horse-railroad,  and 
wheeled  barges  gliding  back  and  forward  over  it, — so 
delightfully  closing  at  its  western  extremity  in  sunny 
courts  and  passages  where  I  know  peace,  and  beauty, 
and  virtue,  and  serene  old  age  must  be  perpetual 
tenants, — so  alluring  to  all  who  desire  to  take  their 
daily  stroll,  in  the  words  of  Dr  Watts, — 

"  Alike  unknowing  and  unknown," — 

that  nothing  but  a  sense  of  duty  would  have  prompted 
me  to  reveal  the  secret  of  its  existence.  I  concede, 
therefore,  that  walking  is  an  immeasurably  fine  in- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  143 

vention,  of  which  old  age  ought  constantly  to  avail 
itself. 

Saddle-leather  is  in  some  respects  even  preferable  to 
sole-leather.  The  principal  objection  to  it  is  of  a 
financial  character.  But  you  may  be  sure  that  Bacon 
and  Sydenham  did  not  recommend  it  for  nothing. 
One's  epar,  or,  in  vulgar  language,  liver, — a  ponder- 
ous organ,  weighing  some  three  or  four  pounds, — goes 
up  and  down  like  the  dasher  of  a  churn  in  the  midst  of 
the  other  vital  arrangements,  at  every  step  of  a  trotting 
horse.  The  brains  also  are  shaken  up  like  coppers  in 
a  money-box.  Riding  is  good  for  those  that  are  born 
with  a  silver-mounted  bridle  in  their  hand,  and  can  ride 
as  much  and  as  often  as  they  like,  without  thinking  all 
the  time  they  hear  that  steady  grinding  sound  as  the 
horse's  jaws  triturate  with  calm  lateral  movement  the 
bank-bills  and  promises  to  pay  upon  which  it  is 
notorious  that  the  profligate  animal  in  question  feeds 
day  and  night. 

Instead,  however,  of  considering  these  kinds  of 
exercise  in  this  empirical  way,  I  will  devote  a  brief 
space  to  an  examination  of  them  in  a  more  scientific 
form. 

The  pleasure  of  exercise  is  due  first  to  a  purely 
physical  impression,  and  secondly  to  a  sense  of  power 
in  action.  The  first  source  of  pleasure  varies  of 
course  with  our  condition  and  the  state  of  the  sur- 
rounding circumstances  ;  the  second  with  the  amount 
and  kind  of  power,  and  the  extent  and  kind  of  action. 
In  all  forms  of  active  exercise  there  are  three  powers 
simultaneously  in  action, — the  will,  the  muscles,  and 
the  intellect.  Each  of  these  predominates  in  different 
kinds  of  exercise.  In  walking,  the  will  and  muscles 
are  so  accustomed  to  work  together  and  perform  their 
task  with  so  little  expenditure  of  force,  that  the  in- 
tellect is  left  comparatively  free.  The  mental  pleasure 
in  walking,  as  such,  is  in  the  sense  of  power  over  all 
our  moving  machinery.  But  in  riding,  I  have  the 
additional  pleasure  of  governing  another  will,  and  my 
muscles  extend  to  the  tips  of  the  animaFs  ears  and  to 


144  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

his  four  hoofs,  instead  of  stopping  at  my  hands  and 
feet.  Now  in  this  extension  of  my  volition  and  my 
physical  frame  into  another  animal,  my  tyrannical 
instinct  and  my  desire  for  heroic  strength  are  at  once 
gratified.  When  the  horse  ceases  to  have  a  will  of  his 
own  and  his  muscles  require  no  special  attention  on 
your  part,  then  you  may  live  on  horseback  as  Wesley 
did,  and  write  sermons  or  take  naps,  as  you  like.  But 
you  will  observe  that,  in  riding  on  horseback,  you 
always  have  a  feeling  that,  after  all,  it  is  not  you  that 
do  the  work,  but  the  animal,  and  this  prevents  the 
satisfaction  from  being  complete. 

Now  let  us  look  at  the  conditions  of  rowing.  I  won't 
suppose  you  to  be  disgracing  yourself  in  one  of  those 
miserable  tubs,  tugging  in  which  is,  to  rowing  the  true 
boat,  what  riding  a  cow  is  to  bestriding  an  Arab.  You 
know  the  Esquimaux  kayak  (if  that  is  the  name  of  it), 
don't  you  ?  Look  at  that  model  of  one  over  my  door. 
Sharp,  rather  ? — On  the  contrary,  it  is  a  lubber  to  the 
one  you  and  I  must  have  ;  a  Dutch  fish-wife  to  Psyche, 
contrasted  with  what  I  will  tell  you  about — Our  boat, 
then,  is  something  of  the  shape  of  a  pickerel,  as  you 
look  down  upon  his  back,  he  lying  in  the  sunshine  just 
where  the  sharp  edge  of  the  water  cuts  in  among  the 
lily-pads.  It  is  a  kind  of  a  giant  pod,  as  one  may  say, 
— tight  everywhere,  except  in  a  little  place  in  the 
middle,  where  you  sit.  Its  length  is  from  seven  to  ten 
yards,  and  as  it  is  only  from  sixteen  to  thirty  inches 
wide  in  its  widest  part,  you  understand  why  you  want 
those  "  outriggers,"  or  projecting  iron  frames  with  the 
rowlocks  in  which  the  oars  play.  My  rowlocks  are  five 
feet  apart :  double  the  greatest  width  of  the  boat. 

Here  you  are,  then,  afloat  with  a  body  a  rod  and  a 
half  long,  with  arms,  or  wings,  as  you  may  choose  to 
call  them,  stretching  more  than  twenty  feet  from  tip 
to  tip  ;  every  volition  of  yours  extending  as  perfectly 
into  them  as  if  your  spinal  cord  ran  down  the  centre 
strip  of  your  boat,  and  the  nerves  of  your  arms  tingled 
as  far  as  the  broad  blades  of  your  oars, — oars  of  spruce, 
balanced,  leathered,  and  ringed  under  your  own  special 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  146 

direction.  This,  in  sober  earnest,  is  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  flying  that  man  has  ever  made  or  perhaps 
ever  will  make.  As  the  hawk  sails  without  flapping 
his  pinions,  so  you  drift  with  the  tide  when  you  will, 
in  the  most  luxurious  form  of  locomotion  indulged  to 
an  embodied  spirit.  But  if  your  blood  wants  rousing, 
turn  round  that  stake  in  the  river,  which  you  see  a 
mile  from  here ;  and  when  you  come  in  in  sixteen 
minutes  (if  you  do,  for  we  are  old  boys,  and  not 
champion  scullers,  you  remember),  then  say  if  you 
begin  to  feel  a  little  warmed  up  or  not !  You  can  row 
easily  and  gently  all  day,  and  you  can  row  yourself 
blind  and  black  in  the  face  in  ten  minutes,  just  as  you 
like.  It  has  been  long  agreed  that  there  is  no  way  in 
which  a  man  can  accomplish  so  much  labour  with  his 
muscles  as  in  rowing.  It  is  in  the  boat,  then,  that 
man  finds  the  largest  extension  of  his  volitional  and 
muscular  existence  ;  and  yet  he  may  tax  both  of  them 
so  slightly  in  that  most  delicious  of  exercises,  that  he 
shall  mentally  write  his  sermon,  or  his  poem,  or  recall 
the  remarks  he  has  made  in  company  and  put  them  in 
form  for  the  public,  as  well  as  in  his  easy  chair. 

I  dare  not  publicly  name  the  rare  joys,  the  infinite 
delights,  that  intoxicate  me  on  some  sweet  June  morn- 
ing, when  the  river  and  bay  are  smooth  as  a  sheet  of 
beryl-green  silk,  and  I  run  along  ripping  it  up  with 
my  knife-edged  shell  of  a  boat,  the  rent  closing  after 
me  like  those  wounds  of  angels  which  Milton  tells  of, 
but  the  seam  still  shining  for  many  a  long  rood  behind 
me.  To  lie  still  over  the  Flats,  where  the  waters  are 
shallow,  and  see  the  crabs  crawling  and  the  sculpins 
gliding  busily  and  silently  beneath  the  boat, — to  rustle 
in  through  the  long  harsh  grass  that  leads  up  some 
tranquil  creek, — to  take  shelter  from  the  sunbeams 
under  one  of  the  thousand-footed  bridges,  and  look 
down  its  interminable  colonnades,  crusted  with  green 
and  oozy  growths,  studded  with  minute  barnacles,  and 
belted  with  rings  of  dark  mussels,  while  overhead 
streams  and  thunders  that  other  river  whose  every 
wave  is  a  human  soul  flowing  to  eternity  as  the  river 


146  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

below  flows  to  the  ocean, — lying  there  moored  unseen, 
in  loneliness  so  profound  that  the  columns  of  Tadmor 
in  the  Desert  could  not  seem  more  remote  from  life, — 
the  cool  breeze  on  one's  forehead,  the  stream  whisper- 
ing against  the  half-sunken  pillars, — why  should  I  tell 
of  these  things,  that  1  should  live  to  see  my  beloved 
haunts  invaded  and  the  waves  blackened  with  boats 
as  with  a  swarm  of  water-beetles?  What  a  city  of 
idiots  we  must  be  not  to  have  covered  this  glorious 
bay  with  gondolas  and  wherries,  as  we  have  just 
learned  to  cover  the  ice  in  winter  with  skaters. 

I  am  satisfied  that  such  a  set  of  black-coated,  stiff- 
jointed,  soft-muscled,  paste-corn plexioned  youth  as  we 
can  boast  in  our  Atlantic  cities  never  before  sprang 
from  loins  of  Anglo-Saxon  lineage.  Of  the  females 
that  are  the  mates  of  these  males  I  do  not  here  speak. 
I  preached  my  sermon  from  the  lay-pulpit  on  this 
matter  a  good  while  ago.  Of  course,  if  you  heard 
it,  you  know  my  belief  is  that  the  total  climatic  influ- 
ences here  are  getting  up  a  number  of  new  patterns  of 
humanity,  some  of  which  are  not  an  improvement  on 
the  old  model.  Clipper-built,  sharp  in  the  bows,  long 
in  the  spars,  slender  to  look  at,  and  fast  to  go,  the 
ship,  which  is  the  great  organ  of  our  national  life  of 
relation,  is  but  a  reproduction  of  the  typical  form 
which  the  elements  impress  upon  its  builder.  All 
this  we  cannot  help  ;  but  we  can  make  the  best  of 
these  influences,  such  as  they  are.  We  have  a  few 
good  boatmen, — no  good  horsemen,  that  I  hear  of, — 
I  cannot  speak  for  cricketing, — but  as  for  any  great 
athletic  feat  performed  by  a  gentleman  in  these 
latitudes,  society  would  drop  a  man  who  should  run 
round  the  Common  in  five  minutes.  Some  of  our 
amateur  fencers,  single-stick  players,  and  boxers,  we 
have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of.  Boxing  is  rough 
play,  but  not  too  rough  for  a  hearty  young  fellow. 
Anything  is  better  than  this  white-blooded  degenera- 
tion to  which  we  all  tend. 

I  dropped   into  a  gentleman's  sparring  exhibition 
only  last  evening.     It  did  my  heart  good  to  see  that 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  147 

there  were  a  few  young  and  youngish  youths  left  who 
could  take  care  of  their  own  heads  in  case  of  emergency. 
It  is  a  fine  sight,  that  of  a  gentleman  resolving  him- 
self into  the  primitive  constituents  of  his  humanity. 
Here  is  a  delicate  young  man  now,  with  an  intellectual 
countenance,  a  slight  figure,  a  sub-pallid  complexion, 
a  most  unassuming  deportment,  a  mild  adolescent  in 
fact,  that  any  Hiram  or  Jonathan  from  between  the 
ploughtails  would  of  course  expect  to  handle  with 
perfect  ease.  Oh,  he  is  taking  off  his  gold-bowed 
spectacles  !  Ah,  he  is  divesting  himself  of  his  cravat  ! 
Why,  he  is  stripping  off  his  coat !  Well,  here  he  is, 
sure  enough,  in  a  tight  silk  shirt,  and  with  two  things 
that  look  like  batter-puddings  in  the  place  of  his  fists. 
Now  see  that  other  fellow  with  another  pair  of  batter- 
puddings, — the  big  one  with  the  broad  shoulders  ;  he 
will  certainly  knock  the  little  man's  head  off  if  he 
strikes  him.  Feinting,  dodging,  stopping,  hitting, 
countering, — little  man's  head  not  off  yet.  You  might 
as  well  try  to  jump  upon  your  own  shadow  as  to  hit  the 
little  man's  intellectual  features.  He  needn't  have 
taken  off  the  gold-bowed  spectacles  at  all.  Quick, 
cautious,  shifty,  nimble,  cool,  he  catches  all  the  fierce 
lunges  or  gets  out  of  their  reach,  till  his  turn  comes, 
and  then,  whack  goes  one  of  the  batter-puddings 
against  the  big  one's  ribs,  and  bang  goes  the  other 
into  the  big  one's  face,  and,  staggering,  shuffling, 
slipping,  tripping,  collapsing,  sprawling,  down  goes 
the  big  one  in  a  miscellaneous  bundle. — If  my  young 
friend,  whose  excellent  article  I  have  referred  to,  could 
only  introduce  the  manly  art  of  self-defence  among  the 
clergy,  I  am  satisfied  that  we  should  have  better 
sermons  and  an  infinitely  less  quarrelsome  church- 
militant.  A  bout  with  the  gloves  would  let  off  the  ill- 
nature,  and  cure  the  indigestion,  which,  united,  have 
embroiled  their  subject  in  a  bitter  controversy.  We 
should  then  often  hear  that  a  point  of  difference  between 
an  infallible  and  a  heretic,  instead  of  being  vehemently 
discussed  in  a  series  of  newspaper  articles,  had  been 
settled  by  a  friendly  contest  in  several  rounds,  at  the 


148  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

close  of  which  the  parties  shook  hands  and  appeared 
cordially  reconciled. 

But  boxing  you  and  I  are  too  old  for,  I  am  afraid. 
I  was  for  a  moment  tempted,  by  the  contagion  of 
muscular  electricity  last  evening,  to  try  the  gloves  with 
the  Benicia  Boy,  who  looked  in  as  a  friend  to  the  noble 
art ;  but  remembering  that  he  had  twice  my  weight 
and  half  my  age,  besides  the  advantage  of  his  training, 
I  sat  still  and  said  nothing. 

There  is  one  other  delicate  point  I  wish  to  speak  of 
with  reference  to  old  age.  I  refer  to  the  use  of  dioptric 
media  which  correct  the  diminished  refracting  power 
of  the  humours  of  the  eye, — in  other  words,  spectacles. 
I  don't  use  them.  All  I  ask  is  a  large  fair  type,  a 
strong  daylight  or  gas-light,  and  one  yard  of  focal 
distance,  and  my  eyes  are  as  good  as  ever.  But  if 
your  eyes  fail,  I  can  tell  you  something  encouraging. 
There  is  now  living  in  New  York  State  an  old  gentle- 
man who,  perceiving  his  sight  to  fail,  immediately 
took  to  exercising  it  on  the  finest  print,  and  in  this 
way  fairly  bullied  Nature  out  of  her  foolish  habit 
of  taking  liberties  at  five-and-forty,  or  thereabout. 
And  now  this  old  gentleman  performs  the  most  ex- 
traordinary feats  with  his  pen,  showing  that  his 
eyes  must  be  a  pair  of  microscopes.  I  should  be 
afraid  to  say  to  you  how  much  he  writes  in  the  com- 
pass of  a  half-dime, — whether  the  Psalms  or  the 
Gospels,  or  the  Psalms  and  the  Gospels,  I  won't  be 
positive. 

But  now  let  me  tell  you  this.  If  the  time  comes 
when  you  must  lay  down  the  fiddle  and  the  bow  because 
your  fingers  are  too  stiff,  and  drop  the  ten-foot  sculls 
because  your  arms  are  too  weak,  and,  after  dallying 
awhile  with  eye-glasses,  come  at  last  to  the  undis- 
guised reality  of  spectacles, — if  the  time  comes  when 
that  fire  of  life  we  spoke  of  has  burned  so  low  that 
where  its  flames  reverberated  there  is  only  the  sombre 
stain  of  regret,  and  where  its  coals  glowed,  only  the 
white  ashes  that  cover  the  embers  of  memory, — don't 
let  your  heart  grow  cold,  and  you  may  carry  cheer- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  149 

fulness  and  love  with  vou  into  the  teens  of  your 
second  century,  if  you  can  last  so  long.  As  our 
friend,  the  Poet,  once  said,  in  some  of  those  old- 
fashioned  heroics  of  his  which  he  keeps  for  his  private 
reading, — 

Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 

Holds  o'er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 

For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 

Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 

If  yet  the  minstrel's  song,  the  poet's  lay, 

Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  with  their  play, 

Or  maiden's  smile,  or  heavenly  dream  of  art 

Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his  heart, — 

Turn  to  the  record  where  his  years  are  told, — 

Count  his  grey  hairs, — they  cannot  make  him  old ! 

End  of  the  Professor's  Paper. 

[The  above  essay  was  not  read  at  one  time,  but  in 
several  instalments,  and  accompanied  by  various  com- 
ments from  different  persons  at  the  table.  The  com- 
pany were  in  the  main  attentive,  with  the  exception 
of  a  little  somnolence  on  the  part  of  the  old  gentle- 
man opposite  at  times,  and  a  few  sly,  malicious  questions 
about  the  "old  boys"  on  the  part  of  that  forward  young 
fellow  who  has  figured  occasionally,  not  always  to  his 
advantage,  in  these  reports. 

On  Sunday  mornings,  in  obedience  to  a  feeling  I 
am  not  ashamed  of,  I  have  always  tried  to  give  a 
more  appropriate  character  to  our  conversation.  I 
have  never  read  them  my  sermon  yet,  and  I  don't 
know  that  I  shall,  as  some  of  them  might  take  my 
convictions  as  a  personal  indignity  to  themselves. 
But  having  read  our  company  so  much  of  the  Pro- 
fessor's talk  about  age  and  other  subjects  connected 
with  physicial  life,  1  took  the  next  Sunday  morning  to 
repeat  to  them  the  following  poem  of  his,  which  I 
have  had  by  me  some  time.  He  calls  it — I  suppose, 
for  his  professional  friends — THE  ANATOMIST'S  HYMN  ; 
but  I  shall  name  it — ] 


150  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

THE  LIVING  TEMPLE 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen  : 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame, — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 
Then  kindling  each  decaying  part 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame, 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  you  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light ; 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  151 

Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray, 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds, 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will ; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells  ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

O  Father  !  grant  Thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  Thine  ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  Thy  mercy  warms 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms  ! 


VIII 

[SPRING  has  come.  You  will  find  some  verses  to  that 
effect  at  the  end  of  these  notes.  If  you  are  an  im- 
patient reader,  skip  to  them  at  once.  In  reading 
aloud,  omit,  if  you  please,  the  sixth  and  seventh 
verses.  These  are  parenthetical  and  digressive,  and 
unless  your  audience  is  of  superior  intelligence,  will 
confuse  them.  Many  people  can  ride  on  horseback 
who  find  it  hard  to  get  on  and  to  get  off  without 
assistance.  One  has  to  dismount  from  an  idea,  and 
get  into  the  saddle  again  at  every  parenthesis.] 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite,  finding 

that  spring  had  fairly  come,  mounted  a  white  hat  one 
day,  and  walked  into  the  street.  It  seems  to  have 
been  a  premature  or  otherwise  exceptionable  exhibition, 
not  unlike  that  commemorated  by  the  late  Mr  Bayly. 
When  the  old  gentleman  came  home,  he  looked  very 
red  in  the  face,  and  complained  that  he  had  been 
' '  made  sport  of."  By  sympathizing  questions,  I  learned 
from  him  that  a  boy  had  called  him  "  old  daddy," 
and  asked  him  when  he  had  his  hat  whitewashed. 

This  incident  led  me  to  make  some  observations 
at  the  table  the  next  morning,  which  I  here  repeat 
for  the  benefit  of  the  readers  of  this  record. 

The  hat  is  the  vulnerable  point  of  the  artificial 

integument.  I  learned  this  in  early  boyhood.  I  was 
once  equipped  in  a  hat  of  Leghorn  straw,  having  a 
brim  of  much  wider  dimensions  than  were  usual  at 
that  time,  and  sent  to  school  in  that  portion  of  my 
native  town  which  lies  nearest  to  this  metropolis. 
On  my  way  I  was  met  by  a  "  Port-chuck,"  as  we  used 
to  call  the  young  gentlemen  of  that  locality,  and  the 
following  dialogue  ensued  : — 

152 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  163 

The  Port-chuck.  Hullo,  you  sir,  joo  know  th'  wuz 
goin-to  be  a  race  to-morrah  ? 

Myself.  No.  Who's  gon-to  run,  'n'  wher's't  gon- 
tobe? 

The  Port-chuck.  Squire  Mico  V  Doctor  Williams, 
round  the  brim  o'  your  hat. 

These  two  much-respected  gentlemen  being  the 
oldest  inhabitants  at  that  time,  and  the  alleged  race- 
course being  out  of  the  question,  the  Port-chuck  also 
winking  and  thrusting  his  tongue  into  his  cheek,  I  per- 
ceived that  I  had  been  trifled  with,  and  the  effect  has 
been  to  make  me  sensitive  and  observant  respecting 
this  article  of  dress  ever  since.  Here  is  an  axiom  or 
two  relating  to  it : — 

A  hat  which  has  been  popped,  or  exploded  by  being 
sat  down  upon,  is  never  itself  again  afterwards. 

It  is  a  favourite  illusion  of  sanguine  natures  to 
believe  the  contrary. 

Shabby  gentility  has  nothing  so  characteristic  as  its 
hat.  There  is  always  an  unnatural  calmness  about  its 
nap,  and  an  unwholesome  gloss,  suggestive  of  a  wet 
brush. 

The  last  effort  of  decayed  fortune  is  expended  in 
smoothing  its  dilapidated  castor.  The  hat  is  the 
ultimum  moriens  of  "  respectability." 

The  old  gentleman  took  all  these  remarks  and 

maxims  very  pleasantly,  saying,  however,  that  he  had 
forgotten  most  of  his  French  except  the  word  for 
potatoes, — pummies  de  tare. — Ultimum  moriens,  I  told 
him,  is  old  Italian,  and  signifies,  last  thing  to  die. 
With  this  explanation  he  was  well  contented,  and 
looked  quite  calm  when  I  saw  him  afterwards  in  the 
entry  with  a  black  hat  on  his  head  and  the  white  one 
in  his  hand. 

I  think  myself  fortunate  in  having  the  Poet 

and  the  Professor  for  my  intimates.  We  are  so  much 
together,  that  we  no  doubt  think  and  talk  a  good  deal 
alike ;  yet  our  points  of  view  are  in  many  respects 
individual  and  peculiar.  You  know  me  well  enough 
by  this  time.  1  have  not  talked  with  you  so  long  for 


164  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

nothing,  and  therefore  1  don't  think  it  necessary  to 
draw  my  own  portrait.  But  let  me  say  a  word  or  two 
about  my  friends. 

The  Professor  considers  himself,  and  I  consider 
him,  a  very  useful  and  worthy  kind  of  drudge.  I 
think  he  has  a  pride  in  his  small  technicalities.  I 
know  that  he  has  a  great  idea  of  fidelity  ;  and  though 
I  suspect  he  laughs  a  little  inwardly  at  times  at  the 
grand  airs  "  Science "  puts  on,  as  she  stands  marking 
time,  but  not  getting  on,  while  the  trumpets  are  blow- 
ing and  the  big  drums  beating, — yet  I  am  sure  he  has 
a  liking  for  his  speciality  and  a  respect  for  its  culti- 
vators. 

But  I'll  tell  you  what  the  Professor  said  to  the  Poet 
the  other  day. — My  boy,  said  he,  I  can  work  a  great 
deal  cheaper  than  you,  because  I  keep  all  my  goods 
in  the  lower  story.  You  have  to  hoist  yours  into  the 
upper  chambers  of  the  brain,  and  let  them  down  again 
to  your  customers.  I  take  mine  in  at  the  level  of  the 
ground,  and  send  them  off  from  my  doorstep  almost 
without  lifting.  I  tell  you,  the  higher  a  man  has  to 
carry  the  raw  material  of  thought  before  he  works  it 
up,  the  more  it  costs  him  in  blood,  nerve,  and  muscle. 
Coleridge  knew  all  this  very  well  when  he  advised 
every  literary  man  to  have  a  profession. 

Sometimes  I  like  to  talk  with  one  of  them  and 

sometimes  with  the  other.  After  a  while  I  get  tired 
of  both.  •  When  a  fit  of  intellectual  disgust  comes  over 
me,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  found  admirable  as  a 
diversion,  in  addition  to  boating  and  other  amuse- 
ments which  I  have  spoken  of, — that  is,  working  at 
my  carpenter's  bench.  Some  mechanical  employment 
is  the  greatest  possible  relief,  after  the  purely  in- 
tellectual faculties  begin  to  tire.  When  I  was 
quarantined  once  at  Marseilles,  I  got  to  work  im- 
mediately at  carving  a  wooden  wonder  of  loose  rings 
on  a  stick,  and  got  so  interested  in  it,  that,  when  we 
were  set  loose,  I  "  regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh," 
because  my  toy  was  unfinished. 

There  are  long  seasons  when  I  talk  only  with  the 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  155 

Professor,  and  others  when  I  give  myself  wholly  up  to 
the  Poet.  Now  that  my  winter's  work  is  over,  and 
spring  is  with  us,  I  feel  naturally  drawn  to  the  Poet's 
company.  I  don't  know  anybody  more  alive  to  life 
than  he  is.  The  passion  of  poetry  seizes  on  him 
every  spring,  he  says, — yet  oftentimes  he  complains, 
that,  when  he  feels  most,  he  can  sing  least. 

Then  a  fit  of  despondency  comes  over  him. — I 
feel  ashamed,  sometimes, — said  he,  the  other  day, — 
to  think  how  far  my  worst  songs  fall  below  my  best. 
It  sometimes  seems  to  me,  as  I  know  it  does  to  others 
who  have  told  me  so,  that  they  ought  to  be  all  best, — 
if  not  in  actual  execution,  at  least  in  plan  and  motive. 
I  am  grateful — he  continued — for  all  such  criticisms. 
A  man  is  always  pleased  to  have  his  most  serious 
efforts  praised,  and  the  highest  aspect  of  his  nature 
get  the  most  sunshine. 

Yet  I  am  sure,  that,  in  the  nature  of  things,  many 
minds  must  change  their  key  now  and  then,  on 
penalty  of  getting  out  of  tune  or  losing  their  voices. 
You  know,  I  suppose, — he  said, — what  is  meant  by 
complementary  colours?  You  know  the  effect,  too, 
which  the  prolonged  impression  of  any  one  colour 
has  on  the  retina.  If  you  close  your  eyes  after 
looking  steadily  at  a  red  object,  you  see  a  green  image. 

It  is  so  with  many  minds, — I  will  not  say  with  all. 
After  looking  at  one  aspect  of  external  nature,  or  of 
any  form  of  beauty  or  truth,  when  they  turn  away, 
the  complementary  aspect  of  the  same  object  stamps 
itself  irresistibly  and  automatically  upon  the  mind. 
Shall  they  give  expression  to  this  secondary  mental 
state,  or  not  ? 

When  I  contemplate — said  my  friend,  the  Poet — 
the  infinite  largeness  of  comprehension  belonging  to 
the  Central  Intelligence,  how  remote  the  creative 
conception  is  from  all  scholastic  and  ethical  formulae, 
I  am  led  to  think  that  a  healthy  mind  ought  to  change 
its  mood  from  time  to  time,  and  come  down  from  its 
noblest  condition,  never,  of  course,  to  degrade  itself 
by  dwelling  upon  what  is  itself  debasing,  but  to  let  its 


166  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

lower  faculties  have  a  chance  to  air  and  exercise 
themselves.  After  the  first  and  second  floor  have 
been  out  in  the  bright  street  dressed  in  all  their 
splendours  shall  not  our  humble  friends  in  the  base- 
ment have  their  holiday,  and  the  cotton  velvet  and 
the  thin-skinned  jewellery — simple  adornments,  but 
befitting  the  station  of  those  who  wear  them — show 
themselves  to  the  crowd,  who  think  them  beautiful, 
as  they  ought  to,  though  the  people  upstairs  know 
that  they  are  cheap  and  perishable  ? 

I  don't  know  that  I  may  not  bring  the  Poet 

here,  some  day  or  other,  and  let  him  speak  for  him- 
self. Still  I  think  1  can  tell  you  what  he  says  quite 
as  well  as  he  could  do  it. — O, — he  said  to  me,  one 
day, — I  am  but  a  hand-organ  man, — say  rather,  a 
hand-organ.  Life  turns  the  winch,  and  fancy  or 
accident  pulls  out  the  stops.  I  come  under  your 
windows,  some  fine  spring  morning,  and  play  you  one 
of  my  adagio  movements,  and  some  of  you  say, — This 
is  good — play  us  so  always.  But,  dear  friends,  if  I 
did  not  change  the  stop  sometimes,  the  machine 
would  wear  out  in  one  part  and  rust  in  another.  How 
easily  this  or  that  tune  flows  ! — you  say, — there  must 
be  no  end  of  just  such  melodies  in  him. — I  will  open 
the  poor  machine  for  you  one  moment,  and  you  shall 
look.  Ah  !  Every  note  marks  where  a  spur  or  steel 
has  been  driven  in.  It  is  easy  to  grind  out  the  song, 
but  to  plant  these  bristling  points  which  make  it  was 
the  painful  task  of  time. 

I  don't  like  to  say  it, — he  continued, — but  poets 
commonly  have  no  larger  stock  of  tunes  than  hand- 
organs  ;  and  when  you  hear  them  piping  up  under 
your  window,  you  know  pretty  well  what  to  expect. 
The  more  stops  the  better.  Do  let  them  all  be  pulled 
out  in  their  turn  ! 

So  spoke  my  friend,  the  Poet,  and  read  me  one  of 
his  stateliest  songs,  and  after  it  a  gay  chanson,  and 
then  a  string  of  epigrams.  All  true, — he  said, — 
all  flowers  of  his  soul ;  only  one  with  the  corolla 
spread,  and  another  with  its  disk  half  opened,  and 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  157 

the  third  with  the  heart-leaves  covered  up  and  only 
a  petal  or  two  showing  its  tip  through  the  calyx. 
The  water-lily  is  the  type  of  the  poet's  soul, — he  told 
me. 

What  do  you  think,  sir, — said  the  divinity- 
student, — opens  the  souls  of  poets  most  fully  ? 

Why,  there  must  be  the  internal  force  and  the  ex- 
ternal stimulus.  Neither  is  enough  by  itself.  A  rose 
will  not  flower  in  the  dark,  and  a  fern  will  not  flower 
anywhere. 

What  do  I  think  is  the  true  sunshine  that  opens 
the  poet's  corolla? — I  don't  like  to  say.  They  spoil 
a  good  many,  I  am  afraid  ;  or  at  least  they  shine  on  a 
good  many  that  never  come  to  anything. 

Who  are  they  ? — said  the  schoolmistress. 

Women.  Their  love  first  inspires  the  poet,  and 
their  praise  is  his  best  reward. 

The  schoolmistress  reddened  a  little,  but  looked 
pleased. — Did  I  really  think  so? — I  do  think  so;  I 
never  feel  safe  until  I  have  pleased  them ;  I  don't 
think  they  are  the  first  to  see  one's  defects,  but  they 
are  the  first  to  catch  the  colour  and  fragrance  of  a 
true  poem.  Fit  the  same  intellect  to  a  man  and  it  is 
a  bow-string, — to  a  woman  and  it  is  a  harp-string. 
She  is  vibratile  and  resonant  all  over,  so  she  stirs  with 

slighter  musical  tremblings  of  the  air  about  her. 

Ah  me  ! — said  my  friend  the  Poet,  to  me,  the  other 
day, —  what  colour  would  it  not  have  given  to  my 
thoughts,  and  what  thrice-washed  whiteness  to  my 
words,  had  I  been  fed  on  women's  praises.  I  should 
have  grown  like  Mar  veil's  fawn, — 

"  Lilies  without ;  roses  within  !  ** 

But  then, — he  added,  we  all  think,  if  so  and  so,  we 
should  have  been  this  or  that,  as  you  were  saying,  the 
other  day,  in  those  rhymes  of  yours. 

I  don't  think  there  are  many  poets  in  the  sense 

of  creators ;  but  of  those  sensitive  natures  which 
reflect  themselves  naturally  in  soft  and  melodious 
words,  pleading  for  sympathy  with  their  joys  and 


158  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

sorrows,  every  literature  is  full.  Nature  carves  with 
her  own  hands  the  brain  which  holds  the  creative 
imagination,  but  she  casts  the  over-sensitive  creatures 
in  scores  from  the  same  mould. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  poets,  just  as  there  are  two 
kinds  of  blondes.  [Movement  of  curiosity  among  our 
ladies  at  table. — Please  to  tell  us  about  those  blondes, 
said  the  schoolmistress.]  Why,  there  are  blondes  who 
are  such  simply  by  deficiency  of  colouring  matter, — 
negative  or  washed  blondes,  arrested  by  Nature  on  the 
way  to  become  albinesses.  There  are  others  that  are 
shot  through  with  golden  light,  with  tawny  or  fulvous 
tinges  in  various  degree, — positive  or  stained  blondes, 
dipped  in  yellow  sunbeams,  and  as  unlike  in  their 
mode  of  being  to  the  others  as  an  orange  is  unlike  a 
snowball.  The  albino-style  carries  with  it  a  wide 

Eupil    and  a   sensitive    retina.      The    other,   or    the 
jonine  blonde,  has  an  opaline  fire  in  her  clear  eye, 
which  the  brunette  can  hardly  match  with  her  quick 
glittering  glances. 

Just  so  we  have  the  great  sun-kindled,  constructive 
imaginations,  and  a  far  more  numerous  class  of  poets 
who  have  a  certain  kind  of  moonlight  genius  given 
them  to  compensate  for  their  imperfection  of  nature. 
Their  want  of  metal  colouring-matter  makes  them 
sensitive  to  those  impressions  which  stronger  minds 
neglect  or  never  feel  at  all.  Many  of  them  die 
young,  and  all  of  them  are  tinged  with  melancholy. 
There  is  no  more  beautiful  illustration  of  the  principle 
of  compensation  which  marks  the  Divine  benevolence 
than  the  fact  that  some  of  the  holiest  lives  and  some 
of  the  sweetest  songs  are  the  growth  of  the  infirmity 
which  unfits  its  subject  for  the  rougher  duties  of  life. 
When  one  reads  the  life  of  Cowper,  or  of  Keats,  or 
of  Lucretia  and  Margaret  Davidson — of  so  many  gentle, 
sweet  natures,  born  to  weakness,  and  mostly  dying 
before  their  time, — one  cannot  help  thinking  that  the 
human  race  dies  out  singing,  like  the  swan  in  the  old 
story.  The  French  poet,  Gilbert,  who  died  at  the 
Hotel  Dieu,  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine, — (killed  by  a 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  159 

key  in  his  throat,  which  he  had  swallowed  when 
delirious  in  consequence  of  a  fall), — this  poor  fellow 
was  a  very  good  example  of  the  poet  by  excess  of 
sensibility.  I  found,  the  other  day,  that  some  of  my 
literary  friends  had  never  heard  of  him,  though  I 
suppose  few  educated  Frenchmen  do  not  know  the 
lines  which  he  wrote  a  week  before  his  death,  upon  a 
mean  bed  in  the  great  hospital  of  Paris. 

"  Au  banquet  de  la  vie,  infortune  convive, 

J'apparus  un  jour,  et  je  meurs  ; 
Je  meurs,  et  sur  ma  tombe,  ou  lentement  j'arrive, 
Nul  ne  viendra  verser  des  pleurs." 

At  life's  gay  banquet  placed,  a  poor  unhappy  guest, 

One  day  I  pass,  then  disappear  ; 
I  die,  and  on  the  tomb  where  I  at  length  shall  rest 

No  friend  shall  come  to  shed  a  tear. 

You  remember  the  same  thing  in  other  words  some- 
where in  Kirke  White's  poems.  It  is  the  burden  of 
the  plaintive  songs  of  all  these  sweet  albino-poets. 
"  I  shall  die  and  be  forgotten,  and  the  world  will  go 
on  just  as  if  I  had  never  been  ; — and  yet  how  I  have 
loved  !  how  I  have  longed  !  how  I  have  aspired  ! " 
And  so  singing,  their  eyes  grow  brighter  and  brighter, 
and  their  features  thinner  and  thinner,  until  at  last 
the  veil  of  flesh  is  threadbare,  and,  still  singing,  they 
drop  it  and  pass  onward. 

Our  brains  are  seventy-year  clocks.  The 

Angel  of  Life  winds  them  up  once  for  all,  then  closes 
the  case,  and  gives  the  key  into  the  hand  of  the  Angel 
of  the  Resurrection. 

Tic-tac !  tic-tac !  go  the  wheels  of  thought ;  our 
will  cannot  stop  them  ;  they  cannot  stop  themselves ; 
sleep  cannot  still  them  ;  madness  only  makes  them 
go  faster ;  death  alone  can  break  into  the  case,  and, 
seizing  the  ever-swinging  pendulum,  which  we  call 
the  heart,  silence  at  last  the  clicking  of  the  terrible 


160  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

escapement  we  have  carried  so  long  beneath  our 
wrinkled  foreheads. 

If  we  could  only  get  at  them,  as  we  lie  on  our 
pillows  and  count  the  dead  beats  of  thought  after 
thought  and  image  after  image  jarring  through  the 
overtired  organ  !  Will  nobody  block  those  wheels, 
uncouple  that  pinion,  cut  the  string  that  holds  those 
weights,  blow  up  the  infernal  machine  with  gun- 
powder? What  a  passion  comes  over  us  sometimes 
for  silence  and  rest ! — that  this  dreadful  mechanism, 
unwinding  the  endless  tapestry  of  time,  embroidered 
with  spectral  figures  of  life  and  death,  could  have  but 
one  brief  holiday  !  Who  can  wonder  that  men  swing 
themselves  off  from  beams  in  hempen  lassos? — that 
they  jump  off  from  parapets  into  the  swift  and  gurgling 
waters  beneath  ? — that  they  take  counsel  of  the  grim 
friend  who  has  but  to  utter  his  one  peremptory  mono- 
syllable and  the  restless  machine  is  shivered  as  a  vase 
that  is  dashed  upon  a  marble  floor  ?  Under  that  build- 
ing which  we  pass  every  day  there  are  strong  dungeons, 
where  neither  hook,  nor  bar,  nor  bed-cord,  nor  drink- 
ing-vessel  from  which  a  sharp  fragment  may  be 
shattered,  shall  by  any  chance  be  seen.  There  is 
nothing  for  it,  when  the  brain  is  on  fire  with  the 
whirling  of  its  wheels,  but  to  spring  against  the  stone 
wall  and  silence  them  with  one  crash.  Ah,  they 
remembered  that, — the  kind  city  fathers, — and  the 
walls  are  nicely  padded,  so  that  one  can  take  such 
exercise  as  he  likes  without  damaging  himself  on  the 
very  plain  and  serviceable  upholstery.  If  anybody 
would  only  contrive  some  kind  of  a  lever  that  one 
could  thrust  in  among  the  works  of  this  horrid  auto- 
maton and  check  them,  or  alter  their  rate  of  going, 
what  would  the  world  give  for  the  discovery  ? 

From  half  a  dime  to  a  dime,  according  to  the 

style  of  the  place  and  the  quality  of  the  liquor, — said 
the  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John. 

You  speak  trivially,  but  not  unwisely, — I  said.  Un- 
less the  will  maintain  a  certain  control  over  these 
movements,  which  it  cannot  stop,  but  can  to  some 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  161 

extent  regulate,  men  are  very  apt  to  try  to  get  at  the 
machine  by  some  indirect  system  of  leverage  or  other. 
They  clap  on  the  brakes  by  means  of  opium  ;  they 
change  the  maddening  monotony  of  the  rhythm  by 
means  of  fermented  liquors.  It  is  because  the  brain 
is  locked  up  and  we  cannot  touch  its  movement 
directly,  that  we  thrust  these  coarse  tools  in  through 
any  crevice  by  which  they  may  reach  the  interior,  and 
so  alter  its  rate  of  going  for  a  while,  and  at  last  spoil 
the  machine. 

Men  who  exercise  chiefly  those  faculties  of  the 
mind  which  work  independently  of  the  will, — poets 
and  artists,  for  instance,  who  follow  their  imagination 
in  their  creative  moments,  instead  of  keeping  it  in 
hand  as  your  logicians  and  practical  men  do  with  their 
reasoning  faculty, — such  men  are  too  apt  to  call  in 
the  mechanical  appliances  to  help  them  govern  their 
intellects. 

He  means  they  get  drunk, — said  the   young 

fellow  already  alluded  to  by  name. 

Do  you  think  men  of  true  genius  are  apt  to  indulge 
in  the  use  of  inebriating  fluids  ? — said  the  divinity 
student. 

If  you  think  you  are  strong  enough  to  bear  what  I 
am  going  to  say, — I  replied, — I  will  talk  to  you  about 
this.  But  mind,  now,  these  are  the  things  that  some 
foolish  people  call  dangerous  subjects, — as  if  these 
vices  which  burrow  into  people's  souls,  as  the  Guinea- 
worm  burrows  into  the  naked  feet  of  West-Indian 
slaves,  would  be  more  mischievous  when  seen  than 
out  of  sight.  Now  the  true  way  to  deal  with  those 
obstinate  animals,  which  are  a  dozen  feet  long,  some 
of  them,  and  no  bigger  than  a  horse-hair,  is  to  get  a 
piece  of  silk  round  their  heads,  and  pull  them  out  very 
cautiously.  If  you  only  break  them  off  they  grow 
worse  than  ever,  and  sometimes  kill  the  person  who 
has  the  misfortune  to  harbour  one  of  them.  Whence 
it  is  plain  that  the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  find  out 
where  the  head  lies. 

Just  so  of  all  the  vices,  and  particularly  of  this  vice 


162  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

of  intemperance.  What  is  the  head  of  it,  and  where 
does  it  lie  ?  For  you  may  depend  upon  it,  there  is  not 
one  of  these  vices  that  has  not  a  head  of  its  own — an 
intelligence, — a  meaning, — a  certain  virtue,  I  was 
going  to  say, — but  that  might,  perhaps,  sound  paradoxi- 
cal. I  have  heard  an  immense  number  of  moral 
physicians  lay  down  the  treatment  of  moral  Guinea- 
worms,  and  the  vast  majority  of  them  would  always 
insist  that  the  creature  had  no  head  at  all,  but  was  all 
body  and  tail.  So  I  have  found  a  very  common  result 
of  their  method  to  be  that  the  string  slipped,  or  that  a 
piece  only  of  the  creature  was  broken  off,  and  the  worm 
soon  grew  again,  as  bad  as  ever.  The  truth  is,  if  the 
Devil  could  only  appear  in  church  by  attorney,  and 
make  the  best  statement  that  the  facts  would  bear  him 
out  in  doing  on  behalf  of  his  special  virtues  (what  we 
commonly  call  vices),  the  influence  of  good  teachers 
would  be  much  greater  than  it  is.  For  the  arguments 
by  which  the  Devil  prevails  are  precisely  the  ones  that 
the  Devil-queller  most  rarely  answers.  The  way  to  argue 
down  a  vice  is,  not  to  tell  lies  about  it, — to  say  that  it 
has  no  attractions,  when  everybody  knows  that  it  has, 
—but  rather  to  let  it  make  out  its  case  just  as  it  cer- 
tainly will  in  the  moment  of  temptation,  and  then  meet 
it  with  the  weapons  furnished  by  the  Divine  armoury. 
Ith  uriel  did  not  spit  the  toad  on  his  spear,  you  re- 
member, but  touched  him  with  it,  and  the  blasted  angel 
took  the  sad  glories  of  his  true  shape.  If  he  had  shown 
fight  then,  the  fair  spirits  would  have  known  how  to  deal 
with  him. 

That  all  spasmodic  cerebral  action  is  an  evil  is  not 
perfectly  clear.  Men  get  fairly  intoxicated  with  music, 
with  poetry,  with  religious  excitement, — oftenest  with 
love.  Ninon  de  1'Enclos  said  she  was  so  easily  excited 
that  her  soup  intoxicated  her,  and  convalescents  have 
been  made  tipsy  by  a  beefsteak. 

There  are  forms  and  stages  of  alcoholic  exaltation, 
which,  in  themselves,  and  without  regard  to  their  con- 
sequences, might  be  considered  as  positive  improve- 
ments of  the  persons  affected.  When  the  sluggish 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  163 

intellect  is  roused,  the  slow  speech  quickened,  the  cold 
nature  warmed,  the  latent  sympathy  developed,  the 
flagging  spirit  kindled, — before  the  trains  of  thought 
become  confused,  or  the  will  perverted,  or  the  muscles 
relaxed, — just  at  the  moment  when  the  whole  human 
xoophyte  flowers  out  like  a  full-blown  rose,  and  is 
right  for  the  subscription-paper  or  the  contribution- 
box, — it  would  be  hard  to  say  that  a  man  was,  at 
that  very  time,  worse,  or  less  to  be  loved,  than  when 
driving  a  hard  bargain  with  all  his  meaner  wits  about 
him.  The  difficulty  is,  that  the  alcoholic  virtues  don't 
wash  ;  but  until  the  water  takes  their  colours  out,  the 
tints  are  very  much  like  those  of  the  true  celestial  stuff. 

[Here  I  was  interrupted  by  a  question  which  I  am 
very  unwilling  to  report,  but  have  confidence  enough 
in  those  friends  who  examine  these  records  to  commit 
to  their  candour. 

A  person  at  table  asked  me  whether  I  "  went  in  for 
rum  as  a  steady  drink  ?" — His  manner  made  the  question 
highly  offensive,  but  J  restrained  myself,  and  answered 
thus  :— ] 

Rum  I  take  to  be  the  name  which  unwashed  moral- 
ists apply  alike  to  the  product  distilled  from  molasses 
and  the  noblest  juices  of  the  vineyard.  Burgundy 
"  in  all  its  sunset  glow "  is  rum.  Champagne,  "  the 
foaming  wine  of  Eastern  France/'  is  rum.  Hock, 
which  our  friend,  the  Poet,  speaks  of  as 

"  The  Rhine's  breastmilk,  gushing  cold  and  bright, 
Pale  as  the  moon,  and  maddening  as  her  light," 

is  rum.  Sir,  I  repudiate  the  loathsome  vulgarism  as 
an  insult  to  the  first  miracle  wrought  by  the  Founder 
of  our  religion  !  I  address  myself  to  the  company. — 
I  believe  in  temperance,  nay,  almost  in  abstinence  as  a 
rule  for  healthy  people.  I  trust  that  I  practise  both. 
But  let  me  tell  you,  there  are  companies  of  men  of 
genius  into  which  I  sometimes  go,  where  the  atmos- 
phere of  intellect  and  sentiment  is  so  much  more 
stimulating  than  alcohol,  that,  if  I  thought  fit  to  take 
wine,  it  would  be  to  keep  me  sober. 


164  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

Among  the  gentlemen  that  I  have  known,  few,  if 
any,  were  ruined  by  drinking.  My  few  drunken  ac- 
quaintances were  generally  ruined  before  they  became 
drunkards.  The  habit  of  drinking  is  often  a  vice,  no 
doubt, — sometimes  a  misfortune,  as  when  an  almost 
irresistible  hereditary  propensity  exists  to  indulge  in 
it, — but  oftenest  of  all  a  punishment. 

Empty  heads, — heads  without  ideas  in  wholesome 
variety  and  sufficient  number  to  furnish  food  for  the 
mental  clockwork, — ill-regulated  heads,  where  the  fac- 
ulties are  not  under  the  control  of  the  will, — these  are 
the  ones  that  hold  the  brains  which  their  owners  are 
so  apt  to  tamper  with,  by  introducing  the  appliances 
we  have  been  talking  about.  Now,  when  a  gentle- 
man's brain  is  empty  or  ill-regulated,  it  is,  to  a  great 
extent,  his  own  fault ;  and  so  it  is  simple  retribution, 
that,  while  he  lies  slothfully  sleeping  or  aimlessly 
dreaming,  the  fatal  habit  settles  on  him  like  a  vampyre, 
and  sucks  his  blood,  fanning  him  all  the  while  with 
its  hot  wings  into  deeper  slumber  or  idler  dreams  ! 
I  am  not  such  a  hard  souled  being  as  to  apply  this 
to  the  neglected  poor,  who  have  had  no  chance  to 
fill  their  heads  with  wholesome  ideas,  and  to  be 
taught  the  lesson  of  self-government.  I  trust  the 
tariff  of  Heaven  has  had  an  ad  valorem  scale  for  them 
— and  all  of  us. 

But  to  come  back  to  poets  and  artists  ; — if  they 
really  are  more  prone  to  the  abuse  of  stimulants, — 
and  I  fear  that  this  is  true,  — the  reason  of  it  is  only 
too  clear.  A  man  abandons  himself  to  a  fine  frenzy, 
and  the  power  which  flows  through  him,  as  I  once 
explained  to  you,  makes  him  the  medium  of  a  great 
poem  or  a  great  picture.  The  creative  action  is  not 
voluntary  at  all,  but  automatic  ;  we  can  only  put  the 
mind  into  the  proper  attitude,  and  wait  for  the  wind, 
that  blows  where  it  listeth,  to  breathe  over  it.  Thus 
the  true  state  of  creative  genius  is  allied  to  reverie,  or 
dreaming.  If  mind  and  body  were  both  healthy,  and 
had  food  enough  and  fair  play,  I  doubt  whether  any 
men  would  be  more  temperate  than  the  imaginative 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  165 

classes.  But  body  and  mind  often  flag,  —  perhaps 
they  are  ill-made  to  begin  with,  underfed  with  bread 
or  ideas,  overworked,  or  abused  in  some  way.  The 
automatic  action,  by  which  genius  wrought  its  won- 
ders, fails.  There  is  only  one  thing  which  can  rouse 
the  machine  ;  Hot  will, — that  cannot  reach  it ;  nothing 
but  a  ruinous  agent,  which  hurries  the  wheels  awhile 
and  soon  eats  out  the  heart  of  the  mechanism.  The 
dreaming  faculties  are  always  the  dangerous  ones,  be- 
cause their  mode  of  action  can  be  imitated  by  arti- 
ficial excitement ;  the  reasoning  ones  are  safe,  because 
they  imply  continued  voluntary  effort. 

I  think  you  will  find  it  true,  that,  before  any  vice 
can  fasten  on  a  man,  body,  mind,  or  moral  nature 
must  be  debilitated.  The  mosses  and  fungi  gather  on 
sickly  trees,  not  thriving  ones  ;  and  the  odious  para- 
sites which  fasten  on  the  human  frame  choose  that 
which  is  already  enfeebled.  Mr  Walker,  the  hygeian 
humorist,  declared  that  he  had  such  a  healthy  skin  it 
was  impossible  for  any  impurity  to  stick  to  it,  and 
maintained  that  it  was  an  absurdity  to  wash  a  face 
which  was  of  necessity  always  clean.  I  don't  know 
how  much  fancy  there  was  in  this  ;  but  there  is  no 
fancy  in  saying  that  the  lassitude  of  tired-out  opera- 
tives, and  the  languor  of  imaginative  natures  in  their 
periods  of  collapse,  and  the  vacuity  of  minds  un- 
trained to  labour  and  discipline,  fit  the  soul  and  body 
for  the  germination  of  the  seeds  of  intemperance. 

Whenever  the  wandering  demon  of  Drunkenness 
finds  a  ship  adrift, — no  steady  wind  in  its  sails,  no 
thoughtful  pilot  directing  its  course, — he  steps  on 
board,  takes  the  helm,  and  steers  straight  for  the 
maelstrom. 

I  wonder  if  you  know  the  terrible  smile  ?    [The 

young  fellow  whom  they  call  John  winked  very  hard, 
and  made  a  jocular  remark,  the  sense  of  which  seemed 
to  depend  on  some  double  meaning  of  the  word 
smile.  The  company  was  curious  to  know  what  I 
meant.  ] 


166  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

There  are  persons, — I  said, — who  no  sooner  come 
within  sight  of  you  than  they  begin  to  smile,  with  an 
uncertain  movement  of  the  mouth,  which  conveys  the 
idea  that  they  are  thinking  about  themselves,  and 
thinking,  too,  that  you  are  thinking  they  are  thinking 
about  themselves,  —  and  so  look  at  you  with  a 
wretched  mixture  of  self-consciousness,  awkwardness, 
and  attempts  to  carry  off  both,  which  are  betrayed  by  the 
cowardly  behaviour  of  the  eye  and  the  tell-tale  weakness 
of  the  lips  that  characterise  these  unfortunate  beings. 

Why  do  you  call  them  unfortunate,  sir? — 

asked  the  divinity-student. 

Because  it  is  evident  that  the  consciousness  of 
some  imbecility  or  other  is  at  the  bottom  of  this 
extraordinary  expression.  I  don't  think,  however, 
that  these  persons  are  commonly  fools.  I  have 
known  a  number,  and  all  of  them  were  intelligent. 
I  think  nothing  conveys  the  idea  of  under-breeding 
more  than  this  self-betraying  smile.  Yet  I  think  this 
peculiar  habit  as  well  as  that  of  meaningless  blushing 
may  be  fallen  into  by  very  good  people  who  meet 
often,  or  sit  opposite  each  other  at  table.  A  true 
gentleman's  face  is  infinitely  removed  from  all  such 
paltriness, — calm-eyed,  firm-mouthed.  I  think  Titian 
understood  the  look  of  a  gentleman  as  well  as  any- 
body that  ever  lived.  The  portrait  of  a  young  man 
holding  a  glove  in  his  hand,  in  the  Gallery  of  the 
Louvre,  if  any  of  you  have  seen  that  collection,  will 
remind  you  of  what  I  mean. 

Do  I  think  these  people  know  the  peculiar  look 

they  have  ? — I  cannot  say  ;  I  hope  not ;  I  am  afraid 
they  would  never  forgive  me,  if  they  did.  The  worst 
of  it  is,  the  trick  is  catching ;  when  one  meets  one  of 
these  fellows,  he  feels  a  tendency  to  the  same  mani- 
festation. The  professor  tells  me  there  is  a  muscular 
slip,  a  dependence  of  the  platysma  myoides,  which  is 
called  the  risorius  Santorini. 

Say  that  once  more, — exclaimed  the  young 

fellow  mentioned  above. 

The  Professor  says  there  is  a  little  fleshy  slip  called 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  167 

Santorini's  laughing  muscle.  I  would  have  it  cut  out 
of  my  face,  if  I  were  born  with  one  of  those  consti- 
tutional grins  upon  it.  Perhaps  I  am  uncharitable  in 
my  judgments  of  those  sour-looking  people  I  told 
you  of  the  other  day,  and  of  the  smiling  folks.  It 
may  be  that  they  are  born  with  these  looks,  as  other 
people  are  with  more  generally  recognised  deformities. 
Both  are  bad  enough,  but  I  had  rather  meet  three  of 
the  scowlers  than  one  of  these  smilers. 

There  is  another  unfortunate  way  of  looking, 

which  is  peculiar  to  that  amiable  sex  we  do  not  like  to 
find  fault  with.  There  are  some  very  pretty,  but  un- 
happily, very  ill-bred  women,  who  don't  understand 
the  law  of  the  road  with  regard  to  handsome  faces. 
Nature  and  custom  would,  no  doubt,  agree  in  conced- 
ing to  all  males  the  right  of  at  least  two  distinct  looks 
at  every  comely  female  countenance,  without  any  in- 
fraction of  the  rules  of  courtesy  or  the  sentiment  of 
respect.  The  first  look  is  necessary  to  define  the 
person  of  the  individual  one  meets,  so  as  to  avoid  it 
in  passing.  Any  unusual  attraction  detected  in  a  first 
glance  is  a  sufficient  apology  for  a  second, — not  a 
prolonged  and  impertinent  stare,  but  an  appreciating 
homage  of  the  eyes,  such  as  a  stranger  may  inoffen- 
sively yield  to  a  passing  image.  It  is  astonishing  how 
morbidly  sensitive  some  vulgar  beauties  are  to  the 
slightest  demonstration  of  this  kind.  When  a  lady 
walks  the  streets,  she  leaves  her  virtuous-indignation 
countenance  at  home ;  she  knows  well  enough  that 
the  street  is  a  picture-gallery,  where  pretty  faces 
framed  in  pretty  bonnets  are  meant  to  be  seen,  and 
everybody  has  a  right  to  see  them. 

When  we  observe  how  the  same  features  and 

style  of  person  and  character  descend  from  generation 
to  generation,  we  can  believe  that  some  inherited 
weakness  may  account  for  these  peculiarities.  Little 
snapping-turtles  snap — so  the  great  naturalist  tells  us 
— before  they  are  out  of  the  egg-shell.  I  am  satisfied, 
that,  much  higher  up  in  the  scale  of  life,  character  is 
distinctly  shown  at  the  age  of — 2  or — 3  months. 


168  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

My  friend,  the  Professor,  has  heen  full  of  eggs 

lately.  [This  remark  excited  a  burst  of  hilarity,  which 
I  did  not  allow  to  interrupt  the  course  of  my  obser- 
vations.] He  has  been  reading  the  great  book  where 
he  found  the  fact  about  the  little  snapping-turtles 
mentioned  above.  Some  of  the  things  he  has  told 
me  have  suggested  several  odd  analogies  enough. 

There  are  half  a  dozen  men,  or  so,  who  carry  in 
their  brains  the  ovarian  eggs  of  the  next  generation's  or 
century's  civilisation.  These  eggs  are  not  ready  to  be 
laid  in  the  form  of  books  as  yet  ;  some  of  them  are 
hardly  ready  to  be  put  into  the  form  of  talk.  But  as 
rudimentary  ideas  or  inchoate  tendencies,  there  they 
are  ;  and  these  are  what  must  form  the  future.  A 
man's  general  notions  are  not  good  for  much,  unless 
he  has  a  crop  of  these  intellectual  ovarian  eggs  in  his 
own  brain,  or  knows  them  as  they  exist  in  the  minds 
of  others.  One  must  be  in  the  habit  of  talking  with 
such  persons  to  get  at  these  rudimentary  germs  of 
thought ;  for  their  development  is  necessarily  im- 
perfect, and  they  are  moulded  on  new  patterns  which 
must  be  long  and  closely  studied.  But  these  are  the 
men  to  talk  with.  No  fresh  truth  ever  gets  into  a  book. 

A  good  many  fresh  lies  get  in,  anyhow, — said 

one  of  the  company. 

I  proceeded  in  spite  of  the  interruption. — All  uttered 
thought,  my  friend,  the  Professor,  says,  is  of  the 
nature  of  an  excretion.  Its  materials  have  been  taken 
in,  and  have  acted  upon  the  system,  and  been  reacted 
on  by  it ;  it  has  circulated  and  done  its  office  in  one 
mind  before  it  is  given  out  for  the  benefit  of  others. 
It  may  be  milk  or  venom  to  other  minds  ;  but,  in 
either  case,  it  is  something  which  the  producer  has 
had  the  use  of  and  can  part  with.  A  man  instinct- 
ively tries  to  get  rid  of  his  thought  in  conversation  or 
in  print  so  soon  as  it  is  matured  ;  but  it  is  hard  to  get 
at  it  as  it  lies  imbedded,  a  mere  potentiality,  the  germ 
of  a  germ,  in  his  intellect. 

Where  are  the  brains  that  are  fullest  of  these 

ovarian  eggs  of  thought  ? — I  decline  mentioning  indi- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  169 

viduals.  The  producers  of  thought,  who  are  few,  the 
"  jobbers  "  of  thought,  who  are  many,  and  the  retailers 
of  thought,  who  are  numberless,  are  so  mixed  up  in 
the  popular  apprehension,  that  it  would  be  hopeless  to 
try  to  separate  them  before  opinion  has  had  time  to 
settle.  Follow  the  course  of  opinion  on  the  great 
subjects  of  human  interest  for  a  few  generations  or 
centuries,  get  its  parallax,  map  out  a  small  arc  of  its 
movement,  see  where  it  tends,  and  then  see  who  is  in 
advance  of  it  or  even  with  it ;  the  world  calls  him  hard 
names,  probably  ;  but  if  you  would  find  the  ova  of  the 
future,  you  must  look  into  the  folds  of  his  cerebral 
convolutions. 

[The  divinity-student  looked  a  little  puzzled  at  this 
suggestion,  as  if  he  did  not  see  exactly  where  he  was 
to  come  out,  if  he  computed  his  arc  too  nicely.  I  think 
it  possible  it  might  cut  off  a  few  corners  of  his  present 
belief,  as  it  has  cut  off  martyr-burning  and  witch- 
hanging  ; — but  time  will  show, — time  will  show,  as  the 
old  gentleman  opposite  says.] 

O, — here  is  that  copy  of  verses  I  told  you 

about. 

SPRING  HAS  COME 

Intra  Muros 

The  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year, 

Slant  through  my  pane  their  morning  rays  ; 

For  dry  North-westers  cold  and  clear, 
The  East  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen, 
Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 

The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green, 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns  ; 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear  ; 
The  cone-peaked  hyacinth  returns, 

And  lights  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 


170  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

The  willow's  whistling  lashes  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 

With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf ; 

Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

[See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 

That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour, — 

Behold  it  withering, — then  look  up, — 
How  meek  the  forest-monarch's  flower  ! — 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies  ; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near  ; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 

"  Bud,  little  roses  !  Spring  is  here  ! "] 

The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 
Cut  with  the  May-dew  on  their  lips  ; 

The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 
Pink  as  Aurora's  finger-tips. 

Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
On  beauty's  changed  corolla  shades, — 

The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids. 

The  scarlet  shell-fish  click  and  clash 
In  the  blue  barrow  which  they  slide  ; 

The  horseman,  proud  of  streak  and  splash, 
Creeps  homeward  from  his  morning  ride. 

Here  comes  the  dealer's  awkward  string, 
With  neck  in  rope  and  tail  in  knot, — 

Rough  colts,  with  careless  country  swing, 
In  lazy  walk  or  slouching  trot. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  171 

— -  Wild  filly  from  the  mountain-side, 
Doomed  to  the  close  and  chafing  thills, 

Lend  me  thy  long  untiring  stride 
To  seek  with  thee  thy  western  hills  ! 

I  hear  the  whispering  voice  of  Spring, 
The  thrush's  trill,  the  cat-bird's  cry, 

Like  some  poor  hird  with  prisoned  wing 
That  sits  and  sings,  but  longs  to  fly. 

O  for  one  spot  of  living  green, — 

One  little  spot  where  leaves  can  grow 

To  love  unblamed,  to  walk  unseen, 
To  dream  above,  to  sleep  below 


IX 

[Acer    estd    encerrada   el  alma    del    licenciado    Pedro 
Garcias. 

If  I  should  ever  make  a  little  book  out  of  these 
papers,  which  I  hope  you  are  not  getting  tired  of,  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  save  the  above  sentence  for  a 
motto  on  the  title-page.  But  I  want  it  now,  and 
must  use  it.  I  need  not  say  to  you  that  the  words 
are  Spanish,  nor  that  they  are  to  be  found  in  the 
short  Introduction  to  "  Gil  Bias,"  nor  that  they  mean, 
"  Here  lies  buried  the  soul  of  the  licentiate  Pedro 
Garcias." 

1  warned  all  young  people  off  the  premises  "vhen 
I  began  my  notes  referring  to  old  age.  I  must  be 
equally  fair  with  old  people  now.  They  are  earnestly 
requested  to  leave  this  paper  to  young  persons  from 
the  age  of  twelve  to  that  of  fourscore  years  and  ten, 
at  which  latter  period  of  life  I  am  sure  that  at  least 
I  shall  have  one  youthful  reader.  You  knew  well 
enough  what  I  mean  by  youth  and  age ; — something 
in  the  soul,  which  has  no  more  to  do  with  the  colour 
of  the  hair  than  the  vein  of  gold  in  a  rock  has  to  do 
with  the  grass  a  thousand  feet  above  it. 

I  am  growing  bolder  as  I  write.  I  think  it  requires 
not  only  youth,  but  genius,  to  read  this  paper.  I 
don't  mean  to  imply  that  it  required  any  whatsoever 
to  talk  what  I  have  here  written  down.  It  did  demand 
a  certain  amount  of  memory,  and  such  command  of 
the  English  tongue  as  is  given  by  a  common  school 
education.  So  much  I  do  claim.  But  here  I  have 
related,  at  length,  a  string  of  trivialities.  You  must 
have  the  imagination  of  a  poet  to  transfigure  them. 
These  little  coloured  patches  are  stains  upon  the 
172 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  173 

windows  of  a  human  soul  ;  stand  on  the  outside,  they 
are  but  dull  and  meaningless  spots  of  colour  ;  seen 
from  within,  they  are  glorified  shapes  with  empurpled 
wings  and  sunbright  aureoles. 

My  hand  trembles  when  I  offer  you  this.  Many 
times  I  have  come  bearing  flowers  such  as  my  garden 
grew  ;  but  now  I  offer  you  this  poor,  brown,  homely 
growth,  you  may  cast  it  away  as  worthless.  And  yet 
— and  yet — it  is  something  better  than  flowers  ;  it  is 
a  seed-capsule.  Many  a  gardener  will  cut  you  a  bou- 
quet of  his  choicest  blossoms  for  small  fee,  but  he  does 
not  love  to  let  the  seeds  of  his  rarest  varieties  go  out  of 
his  own  hands. 

It  is  by  little  things  that  we  know  ourselves  ;  a  soul 
would  very  probably  mistake  itself  for  another,  when 
once  disembodied,  were  it  not  for  individual  experi- 
ences which  differ  from  those  of  others  only  in  details 
seemingly  trifling.  All  of  us  have  been  thirsty  thou- 
sands of  times,  and  felt,  with  Pindar,  that  water  was 
the  best  of  things.  I  alone,  as  I  think,  of  all  mankind, 
remember  one  particular  pailful  of  water,  flavoured 
with  the  white-pine  of  which  the  pail  was  made,  and 
the  brown  mug  out  of  which  one  Edmund,  a  red-faced 
and  curly-haired  boy,  was  averred  to  have  bitten  a 
fragment  in  his  haste  to  drink  ;  it  being  then  high 
summer,  and  little  full-blooded  boys  feeling  very  warm 
and  porous  in  the  low-"  studded "  schoolroom  where 
Dame  Prentiss,  dead  and  gone,  ruled  over  young 
children,  many  of  whom  are  old  ghosts  now,  and  have 
known  Abraham  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  of  our  mortal 
time. 

Thirst  belongs  to  humanity,  everywhere,  in  all  ages  ; 
but  that  white-pine  pail,  and  that  brown  mug  belong 
to  me  in  particular  ;  and  just  so  of  my  special  relation- 
ships with  other  things  and  with  my  race.  One  could 
never  remember  himself  in  eternity  by  the  mere  fact 
of  having  loved  or  hated  any  more  than  by  that  of 
having  thirsted  ;  love  and  hate  have  no  more  indi- 
viduality in  them  than  single  waves  in  the  ocean ; 
— but  the  accidents  or  trivial  marks  which  distinguish 


174  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

those  whom  we  loved  or  hated  make  their  memory  our 
own  for  ever,  and  with  it  that  of  our  own  personality  also. 

Therefore,  my  aged  friend  of  five-and-twenty,  or 
thereabouts,  pause  at  the  threshold  of  this  particular 
record,  and  ask  yourself  seriously  whether  you  are  fit 
to  read  such  revelations  as  are  to  follow.  For  observe, 
you  have  here  no  splendid  array  of  petals  such  as  poets 
offer  you, — nothing  but  a  dry  shell,  containing,  if  you 
will  get  out  what  is  in  it,  a  few  small  seeds  of  poems. 
You  may  laugh  at  them,  if  you  like.  I  shall  never  tell 
you  what  I  think  of  you  for  so  doing.  But  if  you  can 
read  into  the  heart  of  these  things,  in  the  light  of  other 
memories  as  slight,  yet  as  dear  to  your  soul,  then  you 
are  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  POET,  and  can  afford 
to  write  no  more  verses  during  the  rest  of  your  natural 
life, — which  abstinence  I  take  to  be  one  of  the  surest 
marks  of  your  meriting  the  divine  name  I  have  just 
bestowed  upon  you. 

May  I  beg  of  you  who  have  begun  this  paper,  nobly 
trusting  to  your  own  imagination  and  sensibilities  to 
give  it  the  significance  which  it  does  not  lay  claim  to 
without  your  kind  assistance, — may  I  beg  of  you,  I 
say,  to  pay  particular  attention  to  the  brackets  which 
enclose  certain  paragraphs  ?  I  want  my  "  asides,"  you 
see,  to  whisper  loud  to  you  who  read  my  notes,  and 
sometimes  I  talk  a  page  or  two  to  you  without  pre- 
tending that  I  said  a  word  of  it  to  our  boarders.  You 
will  find  a  very  long  "  aside  "  to  you  almost  as  soon  as 
you  begin  to  read.  And  so,  dear  young  friend,  fall 
to  at  once,  taking  such  things  as  I  have  provided  for 
you  ;  and  if  you  turn  them,  by  the  aid  of  your  power- 
ful imagination,  into  a  fair  banquet,  why,  then,  peace 
be  with  you,  and  a  summer  by  the  still  waters  of  some 
quiet  river,  or  by  some  yellow  beach,  where,  as  my 
friend  the  Professor  says,  you  can  sit  with  Nature's 
wrist  in  your  hand  and  count  her  ocean  pulses.] 

I  should  like  to  make  a  few  intimate  revelations 
relating  especially  to  my  early  life,  if  I  thought  you 
would  like  to  hear  them. 

[The    schoolmistress   turned  a  little   in  her   chair, 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  175 

and  sat  with  her  face  directed  partly  towards  me. — 
Half-mourning  now ;  purple  ribbon.  That  breastpin 
she  wears  has  gray  hair  in  it ;  her  mother's,  no  doubt ; 
— I  remember  our  landlady's  daughter  telling  me, 
soon  after  the  schoolmistress  came  to  board  with  us, 
that  she  had  lately  "  buried  a  payrent."  That's  what 
made  her  look  so  pale, — kept  the  poor  dying  thing 
alive  with  her  own  blood.  Ah  !  long  illness  is  the 
real  vampyrism  ;  think  of  living  a  year  or  two  after 
one  is  dead,  by  sucking  the  life-blood  out  of  a  frail 
young  creature  at  one's  bedside  !  Well,  souls  grow 
white,  as  well  as  cheeks,  in  these  holy  duties  ;  one 
that  goes  in  a  nurse,  may  come  out  an  angel. — God 
bless  all  good  women  ! — to  their  soft  hands  and  pitying 

hearts  we  must  all  come  at  last ! The  schoolmistress 

has  a  better  colour  than  when  she  came. Too  late  ! 

"  It  might  have  been." Amen  ! 

How  many  thoughts  go  to  a  dozen  heart-beats, 

sometimes  !  There  was  no  long  pause  after  my  remark 
addressed  to  the  company,  but  in  that  time  I  had  the 
train  of  ideas  and  feelings  I  have  just  given  flash 
through  my  consciousness  sudden  and  sharp  as  the 
crooked  red  streak  that  springs  out  of  its  black  sheath 
like  the  creese  of  a  Malay  in  his  death-race,  and  stabs 
the  earth  right  and  left  in  its  blind  rage. 

I  don't  deny  that  there  was  a  pang  in  it, — yes,  a 
stab  ;  but  there  was  a  prayer  too, — the  ' '  Amen  "  be- 
longed to  that. — Also,  a  vision  of  a  four-storey  brick 
house,  nicely  furnished, — I  actually  saw  many  specific 
articles, — curtains,  sofas,  tables,  and  others,  and  could 
draw  the  patterns  of  them  at  this  moment, — a  brick 
house,  1  say,  looking  out  on  the  water,  with  a  fair 
parlour,  and  books  and  busts  and  pots  of  flowers  and 
bird-cages,  all  complete  ;  and  at  the  window,  looking 
on  the  water,  two  of  us. — "Male  and  female  created 
He  them." — These  two  were  standing  at  the  window, 
when  a  smaller  shape  that  was  playing  near  them 

looked  up  at  me  with  such  a  look  that  I 

poured  out  a  glass  of  water,  drank  it  all  down,  and 
then  continued.] 


176  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

I  said  I  should  like  to  tell  you  some  things,  such 
as  people  commonly  never  tell,  about  my  early  recol- 
lections. Should  you  like  to  hear  them  ? 

Should  we  like  to  hear  them? — said  the  school- 
mistress ; — no,  but  we  should  love  to. 

[The  voice  was  a  sweet  one,  naturally,  and  had 
something  very  pleasant  in  its  tone  just  then. — The 
four-storey  brick  house,  which  had  gone  out  like  a 
transparency  when  the  light  behind  it  is  quenched, 
glimmered  again  for  a  moment ;  parlour,  books,  busts, 
flower-pots,  bird-cages,  all  complete, — and  the  figures 
as  before.] 

We  are  waiting  with  eagerness,  sir, — said  the 
divinity-student. 

[The  transparency  went  out  as  if  a  flash  of  black 
lightning  had  struck  it.] 

If  you  want  to  hear  my  confessions,  the  next  tiling 
—I  said — is  to  know  whether  I  can  trust  you  with 
them.  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  there  are  a  great 
many  people  in  the  world  that  laugh  at  such  things, 
/think  they  are  fools,  but  perhaps  you  don't  all  agree 
with  me. 

Here  are  children  of  tender  age  talked  to  as  if  they 
were  capable  of  understanding  Calvin's  "  Institutes," 
and  nobody  has  honesty  or  sense  enough  to  tell  the 
plain  truth  about  the  little  wretches  ;  that  they  are  as 
superstitious  as  naked  savages,  and  such  miserable 
spiritual  cowards — that  is,  if  they  have  any  imagina- 
tion— that  they  will  believe  anything  which  is  taught 
them,  and  a  great  deal  more  which  they  teach  them- 
selves. 

I  was  born  and  bred,  as  I  have  told  you  twenty 
times,  among  books  and  those  who  knew  what  was  in 
books.  I  was  carefully  instructed  in  things  temporal 
and  spiritual.  But  up  to  a  considerable  maturity  of 
childhood  I  believed  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  to 
have  been  superhuman  beings.  The  central  doctrine 
of  the  prevalent  religious  faith  of  Christendom  was 
utterly  confused  and  neutralized  in  my  mind  for  years 
by  one  of  those  too  common  stories  of  actual  life,  which 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  177 

I  overheard  repeated  in  a  whisper. — Why  did  I  not 
ask?  you  will  say. — You  don't  remember  the  rosy 
pudency  of  sensitive  children.  The  first  instinctive 
movement  of  the  little  creatures  is  to  make  a  cache, 
and  bury  in  it  beliefs,  doubts,  dreams,  hopes,  and 
terrors.  I  am  uncovering  one  of  these  caches.  Do 
you  think  I  was  necessarily  a  greater  fool  and  coward 
than  another  ? 

I  was  afraid  of  ships.  Why,  I  could  never  tell. 
The  masts  looked  frightfully  tall, — but  they  were  not 
so  tall  as  the  steeple  of  our  old  yellow  meeting-house. 
At  any  rate  I  used  to  hide  my  eyes  from  the  sloops 
and  schooners  that  were  wont  to  lie  at  the  end  of  the 
bridge,  and  I  confess  that  traces  of  this  undefined 
terror  lasted  very  long. — One  other  source  of  alarm 
had  a  still  more  fearful  significance.  There  was  a  great 
wooden  HAND, — a  glove-maker's  sign,  which  used  to 
swing  and  creak  in  the  blast,  as  it  hung  from  a  pillar 
before  a  certain  shop  a  mile  or  two  outside  of  the  city. 
Oh,  the  dreadful  hand  !  Always  hanging  there  ready 
to  catch  up  a  little  boy,  who  would  come  home  to 
supper  no  more,  nor  yet  to  bed, — whose  porringer 
would  be  laid  away  empty  thenceforth,  and  his  half- 
worn  shoes  wait  until  his  small  brother  grew  to  fit  them. 

As  for  all  manner  of  superstitious  observances,  I 
used  once  to  think  I  must  have  been  peculiar  in  having 
such  a  list  of  them,  but  I  now  believe  that  half  the 
children  of  the  same  age  go  through  the  same  experi- 
ences. No  Roman  soothsayer  ever  had  such  a  catalogue 
of  omens  as  I  found  in  the  Sibylline  leaves  of  my  child- 
hood. That  trick  of  throwing  a  stone  at  a  tree  and 
attaching  some  mighty  issue  to  hitting  or  missing, 
which  you  will  find  mentioned  in  one  or  more  bio- 
graphies, I  well  remember.  Stepping  on  or  over 
certain  particular  things  or  spots, — L)r  Johnson's 
especial  weakness, — I  got  the  habit  of  at  a  very  early 
age. — I  won't  swear  that  I  have  not  &ome  tendency  to 
these  not  wise  practices  even  at  this  present  date. 
[How  many  of  you  that  read  these  notes  can  say  the 
same  thing !] 


178  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

With  these  follies  mingled  sweet  delusions,  which 
I  loved  so  well  I  would  not  outgrow  them,  even  when 
it  required  a  voluntary  effort  to  put  a  momentary 
trust  in  them.  Here  is  one  which  I  cannot  help 
telling  you. 

The  firing  of  the  great  guns  at  the  Navy-yard  is 
easily  heard  at  the  place  where  I  was  born  and  lived. 
"  There  is  .a  ship  of  war  come  in,"  they  used  to  say, 
when  they  h.^ard  them.  Of  course,  I  supposed  that 
such  vessels  came  in  unexpectedly,  after  indefinite 
years  of  absence, — suddenly  as  falling  stones  ;  and 
that  the  great  guns  roared  in  their  astonishment  and 
delight  at  the  sight  of  the  old  war-ship  splitting  the 
bay  with  her  cutwater.  Now,  the  sloop-of-war  the 
Wasp,  Captain  Blakely,  after  gloriously  capturing  the 
Reindeer  and  the  Avon,  had  disappeared  from  the  face 
of  the  ocean,  and  was  supposed  to  be  lost.  But  there 
was  no  proof  of  it,  and,  of  course,  for  a  time,  hopes 
were  entertained  that  she  might  be  heard  from.  Long 
after  the  last  real  chance  had  utterly  vanished,  I 
pleased  myself  with  the  fond  illusion  that  somewhere 
on  the  waste  of  waters  she  was  still  floating,  and  there 
were  years  during  which  I  never  heard  the  sound  of 
the  great  guns  booming  inland  from  the  Navy-yard 
without  saying  to  myself  "  the  Wasp  has  come  ! "  and 
almost  thinking  I  could  see  her,  as  she  rolled  in, 
crumpling  the  water  before  her,  weather-beaten, 
barnacled,  with  shattered  spars  and  threadbare  canvas, 
welcomed  by  the  shouts  and  tears  of  thousands.  This 
was  one  of  those  dreams  that  I  nursed  and  never  told. 
Let  me  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  now,  and  say,  that, 
so  late  as  to  have  outgrown  childhood,  perhaps  to  have 
got  far  on  towards  manhood,  when  the  roar  of  the 
cannon  has  struck  suddenly  on  my  ear,  I  have  started 
with  a  thrill  of  vague  expectation  and  tremulous  delight 
and  the  long-unspoken  words  have  articulated  them- 
selves in  the  mind's  dumb  whisper,  The  "  Wasp "  has 
come! 

Yes,  children  believe  plenty  of  queer  things. 

I  suppose  all  of  you  have  had  the  pocket-book  fever 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  179 

when  you  were  little? — What  do  I  mean?  Why, 
ripping  up  old  pocket-books  in  the  firm  belief  that 
bank-bills  to  an  immense  amount  were  hidden  in 
them. — So,  too,  you  must  all  remember  some  splendid 
unfulfilled  promise  of  somebody  or  other,  which  fed 
you  with  hopes  perhaps  for  years,  and  which  left  a 
blank  in  your  life  which  nothing  has  ever  filled  up. — 
O.  T.  quitted  our  household,  carrying  with  him  the 
passionate  regrets  of  the  more  youthful  members.  He 
was  an  ingenious  youngster  ;  wrote  wonderful  copies, 
and  carved  the  two  initials  given  above  with  great  skill 
on  all  available  surfaces.  I  thought,  by  the  way,  they 
were  all  gone  ;  but  the  other  day  I  found  them  on  a 
certain  door  which  I  will  show  you  some  time.  How 
it  surprised  me  to  find  them  so  near  the  ground  !  I 
had  thought  the  boy  of  no  trivial  dimensions.  Well, 
O.  T.,  when  he  went,  made  a  solemn  promise  to  two  of 
us.  I  was  to  have  a  ship,  and  the  other  a  martin- 
house  (the  last  syllable  pronounced  as  in  the  word  tin). 
Neither  ever  came  ;  but,  O  how  many  and  many  a  time 
I  have  stolen  to  the  corner, — the  cars  pass  close  by  it 
at  this  time, — and  looked  up  that  long  avenue,  think- 
ing that  he  must  be  coming  now,  almost  sure,  as  I 
turned  to  look  northward,  that  there  he  would  be, 
trudging  toward  me,  the  ship  in  one  hand  and  the 
martin-house  in  the  other  ! 

[You  must  not  suppose  that  all  I  am  going  to  say, 
as  well  as  all  I  have  said,  was  told  to  the  whole 
company.  The  young  fellow  whom  they  call  John 
was  in  the  yard,  sitting  on  a  barrel  and  smoking  a 
cheroot,  the  fumes  of  which  came  in,  not  ungrateful, 
through  the  open  window.  The  divinity-student  dis- 
appeared in  the  midst  of  our  talk.  The  poor  relation 
in  black  bombazine,  who  looked  and  moved  as  if  all 
her  articulations  were  elbow-joints,  had  gone  off  to  her 
chamber,  after  waiting  with  a  look  of  soul-subduing 
decorum  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  until  one  of  the  male 
sort  had  passed  her  and  ascended  into  the  upper 
regions.  This  is  a  famous  point  of  etiquette  in  our 
boarding-house  ;  in  fact,  between  ourselves,  they  make 


180  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

such  an  awful  fuss  about  it,  that  1,  for  one,  had  a  great 
deal  rather  have  them  simple  enough  not  to  think  of 
such  matters  at  all.  Our  landlady's  daughter  said,  the 
other  evening,  that  she  was  going  to  "  retire  "  ;  where- 
upon the  young  fellow  called  John,  took  up  a  lamp, 
and  insisted  on  lighting  her  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 
Nothing  would  induce  her  to  pass  by  him,  until  the 
schoolmistress,  saying  in  good  plain  English  that  it 
was  her  bedtime,  walked  straight  by  them  both,  and 
not  seeming  to  trouble  herself  about  either  of  them. 

I  have  been  led  away  from  what  I  meant  the  portion 
included  in  these  brackets  to  inform  my  readers  about. 
I  say,  then,  most  of  the  boarders  had  left  the  table 
about  the  time  when  I  began  telling  some  of  these 
secrets  of  mine, — all  of  them,  in  fact,  but  the  old 
gentleman  opposite  and  the  schoolmistress.  I  under- 
stand why  a  young  woman  should  like  to  hear  these 
simple  but  genuine  experiences  of  early  life,  which 
are,  as  I  have  said,  the  little  brown  seeds  of  what  may 
yet  grow  to  be  poems  with  leaves  of  azure  and  gold  ; 
but  when  the  old  gentleman  pushed  up  his  chair 
nearer  to  mfc,  and  slanted  round  his  best  ear,  and 
once,  when  I  was  speaking  of  some  trifling,  tender 
reminiscence,  drew  a  long  breath,  with  such  a  tremor 
in  it  that  a  little  more  and  it  would  have  been  a  sob, 
why,  >then  1  felt  there  must  be  something  of  nature 
in  them  which  redeemed  their  seeming  insignificance. 
Tell  me,  man  or  woman  with  whom  I  am  whispering, 
have  you  not  a  small  store  of  recollections,  such  as 
these  I  am  uncovering,  buried  beneath  the  dead  leaves 
of  many  summers,  perhaps  under  the  unmelting  snows 
of  fast-returning  winters, — a  few  such  recollections, 
which,  if  you  should  write  them  all  out,  would  be 
swept  into  some  careless  editor's  drawer,  and  might 
cost  a  scanty  half-hour's  lazy  reading  to  his  subscribers, 
— and  yet,  if  Death  should  cheat  you  of  them,  you 
would  not  know  yourself  in  eternity  r] 

I  made  three  acquaintances  at  a  very  early 

period  of  life,  my  introduction  to  whom  was  never 
forgotten.  The  first  unequivocal  act  of  wrong  that 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  181 

has  left  its  trace  in  my  memory  was  this :  refusing  a 
small  favour  asked  of  me, — nothing  more  than  telling 
what  had  happened  at  school  one  morning.  No 
matter  who  asked  it ;  but  there  were  circumstances 
which  saddened  and  awed  me.  I  had  no  heart  to 
speak  ; — I  faltered  some  miserable,  perhaps  petulant 
excuse,  stole  away,  and  the  first  battle  of  life  was  lost. 
What  remorse  followed  I  need  not  tell.  Then  and 
there,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  I  first  consciously 
took  Sin  by  the  hand  and  turned  my  back  on  Duty. 
This  has  led  me  to  look  upon  my  offence  more 
leniently ;  I  do  not  believe  it  or  any  other  childish 
wrong  is  infinite,  as  some  have  pretended,  but  in- 
finitely finite.  Yet,  O  if  I  had  but  won  that  battle  ! 

The  great  Destroyer,  whose  awful  shadow  it  was 
that  had  silenced  me,  came  near  me, — but  never,  so 
as  to  be  distinctly  seen  and  remembered,  during  my 
tender  years.  There  flits  dimly  before  me  the  image 
of  a  little  girl,  whose  name  even  I  have  forgotten,  a 
schoolmate  whom  we  missed  one  day,  and  were  told 
that  she  had  died.  But  what  death  was  I  never  had 
any  very  distinct  idea,  until  one  day  I  climbed  the 
low  stone  wall  of  the  old  burial-ground  and  mingled 
with  a  group  that  were  looking  into  a  very  deep,  long, 
narrow  hole,  dug  down  through  the  green  sod,  down 
through  the  brown  loam,  down  through  the  yellow 
gravel,  and  there  at  the  bottom  was  an  oblong  red 
box,  and  a  still,  sharp,  white  face  of  a  young  man 
seen  through  an  opening  at  one  end  of  it.  When  the 
lid  was  closed,  and  the  gravel  and  stones  rattled  down 
pell-mell,  and  the  woman  in  black,  who  was  crying 
and  wringing  her  hands,  went  off  with  the  other 
mourners,  and  left  him,  then  I  felt  that  I  had  seen 
Death,  and  should  never  forget  him. 

One  other  acquaintance  I  made  at  an  earlier  period 
of  life  than  the  habit  of  romancers  authorizes, — Love, 
of  course. — She  was  a  famous  beauty  afterwards. — I 
am  satisfied  that  many  children  rehearse  their  parts 
in  the  drama  of  life  before  they  have  shed  all  their 
milk-teeth. — I  think  I  won't  tell  the  story  of  the 


182  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

golden  blonde. — I  suppose  everybody  has  had  his 
childish  fancies  ;  but  sometimes  they  are  passionate 
impulses,  which  anticipate  all  the  tremulous  emotions 
belonging  to  a  later  period.  Most  children  remember 
seeing  and  adoring  an  angel  before  they  were  a  do/en 
years  old. 

[The  old  gentleman  had  left  his  chair  opposite  and 
taken  a  seat  by  the  schoolmistress  and  myself,  a  little 
way  from  the  table. — It's  true,  it's  true,  said  the  old 
gentleman. — He  took  hold  of  a  steel  watch-chain, 
which  carried  a  large,  square  gold  key  at  one  end, 
and  was  supposed  to  have  some  kind  of  timekeeper 
at  the  other.  With  some  trouble  he  dragged  up  an 
ancient-looking,  thick,  silver,  bull's-eye  watch.  He 
looked  at  it  for  a  moment, — hesitated, — touched  the 
inner  corner  of  his  right  eye  with  the  pulp  of  his 
middle  finger, — looked  at  the  face  of  the  watch, — 
said  it  was  getting  into  the  forenoon, — then  opened 
the  watch  and  handed  me  the  loose  outside  case 
without  a  word.  The  watch-paper  had  been  pink 
once,  and  had  a  faint  tinge  still,  as  if  all  its  tender 
life  had  not  yet  quite  faded  out.  Two  little  birds,  a 
flower,  and,  in  small  school-girl  letters,  a  date, — 
17  ..  • — no  matter. — Before  I  was  thirteen  years 

old, — said  the  old  gentleman. 1  don't  know  what 

was  in  that  young  schoolmistress's  head,  nor  why  she 
should  have  done  it ;  but  she  took  out  the  watch- 
paper  and  put  it  softly  to  her  lips,  as  if  she  were 
kissing  the  poor  thing  that  made  it  so  long  ago.  The 
old  gentleman  took  the  watch-paper  carefully  from 
her,  replaced  it,  turned  away  and  walked  out,  holding 
the  watch  in  his  hand.  I  saw  him  pass  the  window 
a  moment  after  with  that  foolish  white  hat  on  his 
head  ;  he  couldn't  have  been  thinking  what  he  was 
about  when  he  put  it  on.  So  the  schoolmistress  and 
I  were  left  alone.  I  drew  my  chair  a  shade  nearer 
to  her,  and  continued.] 

And  since  I  am  talking  of  early  recollections,  I 
don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  mention  some  others  that 
still  cling  to  me, — not  that  you  will  attach  any  very 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  183 

particular  meaning  to  these  same  images  so  full  of 
significance  to  me,  but  that  you  will  find  something 
parallel  to  them  in  your  own  memory.  You  re- 
member, perhaps,  what  I  said  one  day  about  smells. 
There  were  certain  sounds  also  which  had  a  mysterious 
suggestiveness  to  me, — not  so  intense,  perhaps,  as 
that  connected  with  the  other  sense,  but  yet  peculiar, 
and  never  to  be  forgotten. 

The  first  was  the  creaking  of  the  wood-sleds,  bring- 
ing their  loads  of  oak  and  walnut  from  the  country, 
as  the  slow-swinging  oxen  trailed  them  along  over  the 
complaining  snow,  in  the  cold,  brown  light  of  early 
morning.  Lying  in  bed  and  listening  to  their  dreary 
music  had  a  pleasure  in  it  akin  to  the  Lucretian 
luxury,  or  that  which  Byron  speaks  of  as  to  be  en- 
joyed in  looking  on  at  a  battle  by  one  "  who  hath  no 
friend,  no  brother  there." 

There  was  another  sound,  in  itself  so  sweet,  and 
so  connected  with  one  of  those  simple  and  curious 
superstitions  of  childhood  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
that  I  can  never  cease  to  cherish  a  sad  sort  of  love 
for  it. — Let  me  tell  the  superstitious  fancy  first.  The 
Puritan  "  Sabbath,"  as  everybody  knows,  began  at 
"  sundown "  on  Saturday  evening.  To  such  obser- 
vance of  it  I  was  born  and  bred.  As  the  large, 
round  disc  of  day  declined,  a  stillness,  a  solemnity, 
a  somewhat  melancholy  hush  came  over  us  all.  It 
was  time  for  work  to  cease,  and  for  playthings  to  be 
put  away.  The  world  of  active  life  passed  into  the 
shadow  of  an  eclipse,  not  to  emerge  until  the  sun 
should  sink  again  beneath  the  horizon. 

It  was  in  this  stillness  of  the  world  without  and  of 
the  soul  within  that  the  pulsating  lullaby  of  the  even- 
ing crickets  used  to  make  itself  most  distinctly  heard, 
— so  that  I  well  remember  I  used  to  think  that  the 
purring  of  these  little  creatures,  which  mingled  with 
the  batrachian  hymns  from  the  neighbouring  swamp, 
was  peculiar  to  Saturday  evenings.  I  don't  know  that 
anything  could  give  a  clearer  idea  of  the  quieting  and 
subduing  effect  of  the  old  habit  of  observance  of  what 


184  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

was  considered  holy  time,  than  this  strange,  childish 
fancy. 

Yes,  and  there  was  still  another  sound  which 
mingled  its  solemn  cadences  with  the  waking  and 
sleeping  dreams  of  my  boyhood.  It  was  heard  only 
at  times, — a  deep,  muffled  roar,  which  rose  and  fell, 
not  loud,  but  vast,  —  a  whistling  boy  would  have 
drowned  it  for  his  next  neighbour,  but  it  must  have 
been  heard  over  the  space  of  a  hundred  square  miles. 
I  used  to  wonder  what  this  might  be.  Could  it  be 
the  roar  of  the  thousand  wheels  and  the  ten  thousand 
footsteps  jarring  and  trampling  along  the  stones  of 
the  neighbouring  city?  That  would  be  continuous  ; 
but  this,  as  I  have  said,  rose  and  fell  in  regular 
rhythm.  I  remember  being  told,  and  I  suppose  this 
to  have  been  the  true  solution,  that  it  was  the  sound 
of  the  waves,  after  a  high  wind,  breaking  on  the  long 
beaches  many  miles  distant.  I  should  really  like  to 
know  whether  any  observing  people  living  ten  miles, 
more  or  less,  inland  from  long  beaches, — in  such  a 
town,  for  instance,  as  Cantabridge,  in  the  eastern  part 
of  the  Territory  of  the  Massachussets, — have  ever 
observed  any  such  sound,  and  whether  it  was  rightly 
accounted  for  as  above. 

Mingling  with  these  inarticulate  sounds  in  the  low 
murmur  of  memory,  are  the  echoes  of  certain  voices  I 
have  heard  at  rare  intervals.  I  grieve  to  say  it,  but 
our  people,  I  think,  have  not  generally  agreeable 
voices.  The  marrowy  organisms,  with  skins  that  shed 
water  like  the  backs  of  ducks,  with  smooth  surfaces 
neatly  padded  beneath,  and  velvet  linings  to  their 
singing  pipes,  are  not  so  common  among  us  as  that 
other  pattern  of  humanity  with  angular  outlines  and 
plane  surfaces,  arid  integuments,  hair  like  the  fibrous 
covering  of  a  cocoa-nut  in  gloss  and  suppleness  as  well 
as  colour,  and  voices  at  once  thin  and  strenuous, — 
acidulous  enough  to  produce  effervescence  with  alkalis, 
and  stridulous  enough  to  sing  duets  with  the  katydids. 
I  think  our  conversational  soprano,  as  sometimes 
overheard  in  the  cars,  arising  from  a  group  of  young 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  185 

persons,  who  may  have  taken  the  train  at  one  of  our 
great  industrial  centres,  for  instance, — young  persons 
of  the  female  sex,  we  will  say,  who  have  bustled  in 
full-dressed,  engaged  in  loud  strident  speech,  and 
who,  after  free  discussion,  have  fixed  on  two  or  more 
double  seats,  which  having  secured,  they  proceed  to 
eat  apples  and  hand  round  daguerreotypes, — I  say,  I 
think  the  conversational  soprano,  heard  under  these 
circumstances,  would  not  be  among  the  allurements 
the  old  Enemy  would  put  in  requisition,  were  he 
getting  up  a  new  temptation  of  St  Anthony. 

There  are  sweet  voices  among  us,  we  all  know,  and 
voices  not  musical,  it  may  be,  to  those  who  hear  them 
for  the  first  time,  yet  sweeter  to  us  than  any  we  shall 
hear  until  we  listen  to  some  warbling  angel  in  the 
overture  to  that  eternity  of  blissful  harmonies  we  hope 
to  enjoy. — But  why  should  1  tell  lies  ?  If  my  friends 
love  me,  it  is  because  I  try  to  tell  the  truth.  I  never 
heard  but  two  voices  in  my  life  that  frightened  me  by 
their  sweetness. 

Frightened  you?  —  said  the  schoolmistress. — 

Yes,  frightened  me.  They  made  me  feel  as  if  there 
might  be  constituted  a  creature  with  such  a  chord  in 
her  voice  to  some  string  in  another's  soul,  that,  if  she 
but  spoke,  he  would  leave  all  and  follow  her,  though 
it  were  into  the  jaws  of  Erebus.  Our  only  chance  to 
keep  our  wits  is,  that  there  are  so  few  natural  chords 
between  others'  voices  and  this  string  in  our  souls, 
and  that  those  which  at  first  may  have  jarred  a  little 
by-and-by  come  into  harmony  with  it. — But  I  tell  you 
this  is  no  fiction.  You  may  call  the  story  of  Ulysses 
and  the  Sirens  a  fable,  but  what  will  you  say  to 
Mario  and  the  poor  lady  who  followed  him  ? 

Whose  were  those  two  voices  that  bewitched 

me  so  ? — They  both  belonged  to  German  women. 
One  was  a  chambermaid,  not  otherwise  fascinating. 
The  key  of  my  room  at  a  certain  great  hotel  was 
missing,  and  this  Teutonic  maiden  was  summoned  to 
give  information  respecting  it.  The  simple  soul  was 
evidently  not  long  from  her  mother-land,  and  spoke 


186  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

with  sweet  uncertainty  of  dialect.  But  to  hear  her 
wonder  and  lament,  and  suggest,  with  soft,  liquid 
inflections,  and  low,  sad  murmurs,  in  tones  as  full 
of  serious  tenderness  for  the  fate  of  the  lost  key 
as  if  it  had  been  a  child  that  had  strayed  from  its 
mother,  was  so  winning,  that,  had  her  features  and 
figure  been  as  delicious  as  her  accents, — if  she  had 
looked  like  the  marble  Clytie,  for  instance, — why,  all 
I  can  say  is 

[The  schoolmistress  opened  her  eyes  so  wide,  that 
I  stopped  short.] 

I  was  only  going  to  say  that  I  should  have 
drowned  myself.  For  Lake  Erie  was  close  by,  and  it 
is  so  much  better  to  accept  asphyxia,  which  takes 
only  three  minutes  by  the  watch,  than  a  mesalliance, 
that  lasts  fifty  years  to  begin  with,  and  then  passes 
along  down  the  line  of  ascent  (breaking  out  in  all 
manner  of  boorish  manifestations  of  feature  and  man- 
ner, which,  if  men  were  only  short-lived  as  horses, 
could  be  readily  traced  back  through  the  square-roots 
and  the  cube-roots  of  the  family  stem  on  which  you 
have  hung  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  De  Cham- 
pignons or  the  De  la  Morues,  until  one  came  to  beings 
that  ate  with  knives  and  said  ' '  Haow  ? ")  that  no 
person  of  right  feeling  could  have  hesitated  for  a 
single  moment. 

The  second  of  the  ravishing  voices  I  have  heard 
was,  as  I  have  said,  that  of  another  German  woman. 
— I  suppose  I  shall  ruin  myself  by  saying  that  such  a 
voice  could  not  have  come  from  any  Americanized 
human  being. 

What  was  there  in  it  ? — said  the  school- 
mistress,— and,  upon  my  word,  her  tones  were  so 
very  musical  that  I  almost  wished  I  had  said  three 
voices  instead  of  two,  and  not  made  the  unpatriotic 
remark  above  reported. — O,  I  said,  it  had  so  much 
woman  in  it, — muliebrity,  as  well  as  femineity ; — no 
self-assertion,  such  as  free  suffrage  introduces  into 
every  word  or  movement ;  large,  vigorous  nature, 
running  back  to  those  huge-limbed  Germans  of 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  187 

Tacitus,  but  subdued  by  the  reverential  training  and 
tuned  by  the  kindly  culture  of  fifty  generations. 
Sharp  business  habits,  a  lean  soil,  independence, 
enterprise,  and  east  winds,  are  not  the  best  things  for 
the  larynx.  Still,  you  hear  noble  voices  among  us, — 
I  have  known  families  famous  for  them, — but  ask  the 
first  person  you  meet  a  question,  and  ten  to  one  there 
is  a  hard,  sharp,  metallic,  matter-of-business  clink  in 
the  accents  of  the  answer  that  produces  the  effect  of 
one  of  those  bells  which  small  tradespeople  connect 
with  their  shop-doors,  and  which  spring  upon  your  eat 
with  such  vivacity,  as  you  enter,  that  your  first  im- 
pulse is  to  retire  at  once  from  the  precincts. 

Ah,  but  I  must  not  forget  that  dear  little  child 

I  saw  and  heard  in  a  French  hospital.  Between  two 
and  three  years  old.  Fell  out  of  her  chair  and 
snapped  both  thigh-bones.  Lying  in  bed,  patient, 
gentle.  Rough  students  round  her,  some  in  white 
aprons,  looking  fearfully  business-like ;  but  the  child 
placid,  perfectly  still.  I  spoke  to  her,  and  the  blessed 
little  creature  answered  me  in  a  voice  of  such  heavenly 
sweetness,  with  that  ready  thrill  in  it  which  you  have 
heard  in  the  thrush's  even-song,  that  I  hear  it  at  this 
moment,  while  I  am  writing,  so  many,  many  years 
afterwards.  —  (fest  tout  comme  un  serin,  said  the 
French  student  at  my  side. 

These  are  the  voices  which  struck  the  key-note  of 
my  conceptions  as  to  what  the  sounds  we  are  to  hear 
in  heaven  will  be,  if  we  shall  enter  through  one  of  the 
twelve  gates  of  pearl.  There  must  be  other  things 
besides  aerolites  that  wander  from  their  own  spheres 
to  ours  ;  and  when  we  speak  of  celestial  sweetness  or 
beauty,  we  may  be  nearer  the  literal  truth  than  we 
dream.  If  mankind  generally  are  the  shipwrecked 
survivors  of  some  pre-Adamitic  cataclysm,  set  adrift  in 
these  little  open  boats  of  humanity  to  make  one  more 
trial  to  reach  the  shore, — as  some  grave  theologians 
have  maintained, — if,  in  plain  English,  men  are  the 
ghosts  of  dead  devils  who  have  "  died  into  life "  (to 
borrow  an  expression  from  Keats),  and  walk  the 


188  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

earth  in  a  suit  of  living  rags  which  lasts  three  or  four 
score  summers, — why,  there  must  have  been  a  few 
good  spirits  sent  to  keep  them  company,  and  these 
sweet  voices  I  speak  of  must  belong  to  them. 

I  wish  you  could  once  hear  my  sister's  voice, — 

said  the  schoolmistress. 

If  it  is  like  yours  it  must  be  a  pleasant  one, — said  I. 

I  never  thought  mine  was  anything, — said  the 
schoolmistress. 

How  should  you  know  ?  —  said  I.  —  People  never 
hear  their  own  voices, — any  more  than  they  see  their 
own  faces.  There  is  not  even  a  looking-glass  for  the 
voice.  Of  course,  there  is  something  audible  to  us 
when  we  speak  ;  but  that  something  is  not  our  own 
voice  as  it  is  known  to  all  our  acquaintances.  I 
think,  if  an  image  spoke  to  us  in  our  own  tones,  we 
should  not  know  them  in  the  least. — How  pleasant  it 
would  be,  if  in  another  state  of  being  we  could  have 
shapes  like  our  own  former  selves  for  playthings, — 
we  standing  outside  or  inside  of  them,  as  we  liked, 
and  they  being  to  us  just  what  we  used  to  be  to 
others ! 

I  wonder  if  there  will  be  nothing  like  what  we 

call  "  play,"  after  our  earthly  toys  are  broken, — said 
the  schoolmistress. 

Hush,  —  said  I,  —  what  will  the  divinity-student 
say? 

[I  thought  she  was  hit  that  time ; — but  the  shot 
must  have  gone  over  her,  or  on  one  side  of  her  ;  she 
did  not  flinch.] 

O, — said  the  schoolmistress, — he  must  look  out  for 
my  sister's  heresies  ;  I  am  afraid  he  will  be  too  busy 
with  them  to  take  care  of  mine. 

Do  you  mean  to  say, — said  I,  —  that  it  is  your 
sister  whom  that  student 

[The  young  fellow  commonly  known  as  John,  who 
had  been  sitting  on  the  barrel,  smoking,  jumped  off 
just  then,  kicked  over  the  barrel,  gave  it  a  push  with 
his  foot  that  set  it  rolling,  and  stuck  his  saucy-looking 
face  in  at  the  window  so  as  to  cut  my  question  off  in 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  189 

the  middle ;  and  the  schoolmistress  leaving  the  room 
a  few  minutes  afterwards,  I  did  not  have  a  chance  to 
finish  it. 

The  young  fellow  came  in  and  sat  down  in  a  chair, 
putting  his  heels  on  the  top  of  another. 

Pooty  girl, — said  he. 

A  fine  young  lady, — I  replied. 

Keeps  a  fust-rate  school,  according  to  accounts, — 
said  he,  —  teaches  all  sorts  of  things,  —  Latin  and 
Italian  and  music.  Folks  rich  once, — smashed  up. 
She  went  right  ahead  as  smart  as  if  she'd  been  born  to 
work.  That's  the  kind  o'  girl  I  go  for  !  I'd  marry 
her,  only  two  or  three  other  girls  would  drown  them- 
selves if  I  did. 

I  think  the  above  is  the  longest  speech  of  this 
young  fellow's  which  I  have  put  on  record.  I  do  not 
like  to  change  his  peculiar  expressions,  for  this  is  one 
of  those  cases  in  which  the  style  is  the  man,  as  M.  de 
Buffon  says.  The  fact  is,  the  young  fellow  is  a  good- 
hearted  creature  enough,  only  too  fond  of  his  jokes, — 
and  if  it  were  not  for  those  heat-lightning  winks  on 
one  side  of  his  face,  I  should  not  mind  his  fun  much.  ] 

[Some  days  after  this,  when  the  company  were  to- 
gether again,  I  talked  a  little.] 

I  don't  think  I  have  a  genuine  hatred  for  any- 
body. I  am  well  aware  that  I  differ  herein  from  the 
sturdy  English  moralist  and  the  stout  American 
tragedian.  I  don't  deny  that  I  hate  the  sight  of  cer- 
tain people  ;  but  the  qualities  which  make  me  tend  to 
hate  the  man  himself  are  such  as  I  am  so  much  dis- 
posed to  pity,  that,  except  under  immediate  aggra- 
vation, I  feel  kindly  enough  to  the  worst  of  them.  It 
is  such  a  sad  thing  to  be  born  a  sneaking  fellow, 
so  much  worse  than  to  inherit  a  humpback  or  a 
couple  of  club-feet,  that  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  we 
ought  to  love  the  crippled  souls,  if  I  may  use  this  ex- 
pression, with  a  certain  tenderness  which  we  need  not 
waste  on  noble  natures.  One  who  is  born  with  such 
congenial  incapacity  that  nothing  can  make  a  gentle- 


190  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

man  of  him  is  entitled,  not  to  our  wrath,  but  to  our 
profoundest  sympathy.  But  as  we  cannot  help  hating 
the  sight  of  these  people,  just  as  we  do  that  of 
physical  deformities,  we  gradually  eliminate  them 
from  our  society, — we  love  them,  but  open  the  win- 
dow and  let  them  go.  By  the  time  decent  people 
reach  middle  age  they  have  weeded  the  circle  pretty 
well  of  these  unfortunates,  unless  they  have  a  taste 
for  such  animals  !  in  which  case,  no  matter  what  their 
position  may  be,  there  is  something,  you  may  be  sure, 
in  their  natures  akin  to  that  of  their  wretched  parasites. 

The  divinity-student  wished  to  know  what  I 

thought  of  affinities,  as  well  as  of  antipathies ;  did  I 
believe  in  love  at  first  sight  ? 

Sir, — said  I, — all  men  love  all  women.  That  is  the 
prima-facie  aspect  of  the  case.  The  Court  of  Nature 
assumes  the  law  to  be,  that  all  men  do  so ;  and  the 
individual  man  is  bound  to  show  cause  why  he  does 
not  love  any  particular  woman.  A  man,  says  one  of 
my  old  black-letter  law-books,  may  show  divers  good 
reasons,  as  thus  :  He  hath  not  seen  the  person  named 
in  the  indictment ;  she  is  of  tender  age,  or  the  re- 
verse of  that ;  she  has  certain  personal  disqualifi- 
cations,— as,  for  instance,  she  is  a  blackamoor,  or 
hath  an  ill-favoured  countenance  ;  or,  his  capacity  of 
loving  being  limited,  his  affections  are  engrossed  by  a 
previous  comer  ;  and  so  of  other  conditions.  Not  the 
less  is  it  true  that  he  is  bound  by  duty  and  inclined 
by  nature  to  love  each  and  every  woman.  Therefore 
it  is  that  each  woman  virtually  summons  every  man  to 
show  cause  why  he  doth  not  love  her.  This  is  not 
by  written  document,  or  direct  speech,  for  the  most 
part,  but  by  certain  signs  of  silk,  gold,  and  other 
materials,  which  say  to  all  men, — Look  on  me  and 
love,  as  in  duty  bound.  Then  the  man  pleadeth  his 
special  incapacity,  whatsoever  that  may  be, — as,  for 
instance,  impecuniosity,  or  that  he  hath  one  or  many 
wives  in  his  household,  or  that  he  is  of  mean  figure, 
or  small  capacity  ;  of  which  reasons,  it  may  be  noted, 
that  the  first  is,  according  to  late  decisions.,  of  chiefest 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  191 

authority.  So  far  the  old  law-book.  But  there  is  a 
iiote  from  an  older  authority,  saying  that  every  woman 
doth  also  love  each  and  every  man,  except  there  be 
some  good  reason  to  the  contrary  ;  and  a  very  ob- 
serving friend  of  mine,  a  young  unmarried  clergyman, 
tells  me,  that,  so  far  as  his  experience  goes,  he  has 
reason  to  think  the  ancient  author  had  fact  to  justify 
his  statement. 

I'll  tell  you  how  it  is  with  the  pictures  of  women  we 
fall  in  love  with  at  first  sight. 

We  ain't  talking  about  pictures, — said  the  land- 
lady's daughter, — we're  talking  about  women. 

I  understood  that  we  were  speaking  of  love  at  sight, 
— I  remarked,  mildly. — Now,  as  all  a  man  knows  about 
a  woman  whom  he  looks  at  is  just  what  a  picture  as 
big  as  a  copper,  or  a  "nickel,"  rather,  at  the  bottom 
of  his  eye  can  teach  him,  I  think  I  am  right  in  saying 
we  are  talking  about  the  pictures  of  women. — Well, 
now,  the  reason  why  a  man  is  not  desperately  in  love 
tvith  ten  thousand  women  at  once  is  just  that  which 
prevents  all  our  portraits  being  distinctly  seen  upon 
that  wall.  They  all  are  painted  there  by  reflection 
from  our  faces,  but  because  all  of  them  are  painted 
on  each  spot,  and  each  on  the  same  surface,  and  many 
other  objects  at  the  same  time,  no  one  is  seen  as  a 
picture.  But  darken  a  chamber  and  let  a  single  pencil 
of  rays  in  through  a  keyhole,  then  you  have  a  picture 
on  the  wall.  We  never  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  in 
distinction  from  women,  until  we  can  get  an  image  of 
her  through  a  pin-hole  ;  and  then  we  can  see  nothing 
else,  and  nobody  but  ourselves  can  see  the  image  in 
our  mental  camera-obscura. 

My  friend,  the  Poet,  tells  me  he  has  to  leave 

town  whenever  the  anniversaries  come  round. 

What's  the  difficulty  ? — Why,  they  all  want  him  to 
get  up  and  make  speeches,  or  songs,  or  toasts  ;  which 
is  just  the  very  thing  he  doesn't  want  to  do.  He  is 
an  old  story,  he  says,  and  hates  to  show  on  these 
occasions.  But  they  tease  him,  and  coax  him,  and 
can't  do  without  him,  and  feel  all  over  his  poor  weak 


192  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

head  until  they  get  their  lingers  on  the  fontanelle  (the 
Professor  will  tell  you  what  this  means, — he  says  the 
one  at  the  top  of  the  head  always  remains  open  in 
poets),  until,  by  gentle  pressure  on  that  soft  pulsating 
spot,  they  stupefy  him  to  the  point  of  acquiescence. 

There  are  times,  though,  he  says,  when  it  is  a  pleas- 
ure, before  going  to  some  agreeable  meeting,  to  rush 
out  into  one's  garden  and  clutch  up  a  handful  of  what 
grows  there, — weeds  and  violets  together, — not  cut- 
ting them  off,  but  pulling  them  up  by  the  roots  with 
the  brown  earth  they  grow  in  sticking  to  them.  That's 
his  idea  of  a  post-prandial  performance.  Look  here, 
now.  These  verses  I  am  going  to  read  you,  he  tells 
me,  were  pulled  up  by  the  roots  just  in  that  way,  the 
other  day. — Beautiful  entertainment, — names  there 
on  the  plates  that  flow  from  all  English-speaking 
tongues  as  familiarly  as  and  or  the ;  entertainers 
known  wherever  good  poetry  and  fair  title-pages  are 
held  in  esteem  ;  guest  a  kind-hearted,  modest,  genial, 
hopeful  poet,  who  sings  to  the  hearts  of  his  country- 
men, the  British  people,  the  songs  of  good  cheer  which 
the  better  days  to  come,  as  all  honest  souls  trust  and 
believe,  will  turn  into  the  prose  of  common  life.  My 
friend,  the  Poet,  says  you  must  not  read  such  a  string 
of  verses  too  literally.  If  he  trimmed  it  nicely  below, 
you  wouldn't  see  the  roots,  he  says,  and  he  likes  to 
keep  them,  and  a  little  of  the  soil  clinging  to  them. 

This  is  the  farewell  of  my  friend,  the  Poet,  read  to 
his  and  our  friend,  the  Poet : — 

A  GOOD  TIME  GOING 

Brave  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 
Crowned  with  the  noblest  wreath  of  rhyme, 

The  holly-leaf  of  Aryshire's  peasant, 
Good-by  !     Good-by  ! — Our  hearts  and  hands, 

Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases, 
Cry  God  be  with  him,  till  he  stands 

His  feet  among  the  English  daisies  ! 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  193 

Tis  here  we  part ; — for  other  eyes 

The  busy  deck,  the  fluttering  streamer, 
The  dripping  arms  that  plunge  and  rise, 

The  waves  in  foam,  the  ship  in  tremor, 
The  kerchiefs  waving  from  the  pier, 

The  cloudy  pillar  gliding  o'er  him, 
The  deep  blue  desert,  lone  and  drear, 

With  heaven  above  and  home  before  him  ! 

His  home  ! — the  Western  giant  smiles, 

And  twirls  the  spotty  globe  to  find  it  ; — 
This  little  speck  the  British  Isles  ? 

'Tis  but  a  freckle, — never  mind  it ! — 
He  laughs,  and  all  his  prairies  roll, 

Each  gurgling  cataract  roars  and  chuckles, 
And  ridges  stretched  from  pole  to  pole 

Heave  till  they  crack  their  iron  knuckles  ! 

But  memory  blushes  at  the  sneer, 

And  Honour  turns  with  frown  defiant, 
And  Freedom,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Laughs  louder  than  the  laughing  giant : — 
"  An  islet  is  a  world,"  she  said, 

"  When  glory  with  its  dust  has  blended, 
And  Britain  keeps  her  noble  dead 

Till  earth  and  seas  and  skies  are  rended  ! " 

Beneath  each  swinging  forest-bough 

Some  arm  as  stout  in  death  reposes, — 
From  wave-washed  foot  to  heaven-kissed  brow 

Her  valour's  life-blood  runs  in  roses  ; 
Nay,  let  our  brothers  of  the  West 

Write  smiling  in  their  florid  pages, 
One  half  her  soil  has  walked  the  rest 

In  poets,  heroes,  martyrs,  sages  ! 

Hugged  in  the  clinging  billow's  clasp, 

From  sea-weed  fringe  to  mountain  heather, 

The  British  oak  with  rooted  grasp 

Her  slender  handful  holds  together  ; — 


194  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

With  cliffs  of  white  and  bowers  of  green, 
And  Ocean  narrowing  to  caress  her, 

And  hills  and  threaded  streams  between, — 
Our  little  mother  isle,  God  bless  her  ! 

In  earth's  broad  temple  where  we  stand, 

Fanned  by  the  eastern  gales  that  brought  us, 
We  hold  the  missal  in  our  hand, 

Bright  with  the  lines  our  Mother  taught  us  ; 
Where'er  its  blazoned  page  betrays 

The  glistening  links  of  gilded  fetters, 
Behold,  the  half-turned  leaf  displays 

Her  rubric  stained  in  crimsoned  letters  ! 

Enough  !     To  speed  a  parting  friend 

'Tis  vain  alike  to  speak  and  listen  ; — 
Yet  stay, — these  feeble  accents  blend 

With  rays  of  light  from  eyes  that  glisten. 
Good-by  !  once  more, — and  kindly  tell 

In  words  of  peace  the  young  world's  story, — 
And  say,  besides, — we  love  too  well 

Our  mother's  soil,  our  father's  glory  ! 

When  my  friend,  the  Professor,  found  that  my 
friend,  the  Poet,  had  been  coming  out  in  this  full- 
blown style,  he  got  a  little  excited,  as  you  may  have 
seen  a  canary,  sometimes,  when  another  strikes  up. 
The  Professor  says  he  knows  he  can  lecture,  and 
thinks  he  can  write  verses.  At  any  rate,  he  has  often 
tried,  and  now  he  was  determined  to  try  again.  So 
when  some  professional  friends  of  his  called  him  up, 
one  day,  after  a  feast  of  reason  and  a  regular  "  freshet " 
of  soul  which  had  lasted  two  or  three  hours,  he  read 
them  these  verses.  He  introduced  them  with  a  few 
remarks,  he  told  me,  of  which  the  only  one  he  remem- 
bered was  this :  that  he  had  rather  write  a  single  line 
which  one  among  them  should  think  worth  remem- 
bering than  set  them  all  laughing  with  a  string  of 
epigrams.  It  was  all  right,  I  don't  doubt ;  at  any 
rate,  that  was  his  fancy  then,  and  perhaps  another 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  195 

time  he  may  be  obstinately  hilarious ;  however,  it 
may  be  that  he  is  growing1  graver,  for  time  is  a  fact  so 
long  as  clocks  and  watches  continue  to  go,  and  a  cat 
can't  be  a  kitten  always,  as  the  old  gentleman  op- 
posite said  the  other  day. 

You  must  listen  to  this  seriously,  for  I  think  the 
Professor  was  very  much  in  earnest  when  he  wrote  it. 

THE  TWO  ARMIES 

As  Life's  unending  column  pours, 
Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen, — 

Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 

One  marches  to  the  drum-beat's  roll, 
The  wide-mouthed  clarion's  bray, 

And  bears  upon  a  crimson  scroll, 
"Our  glory  is  to  slay." 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 

With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes, 
Calm  as  the  patient  planet's  gleam 

That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 

Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 

No  blood-red  pennons  wave  ; 
Its  banners  bear  the  single  line, 

"  Our  duty  is  to  save." 

For  those  no  death-bed's  lingering  shade  ; 

At  Honour's  trumpet-call 
With  knitted  brow  and  lifted  blade 

In  Glory's  arms  they  fall. 

For  these  no  clashing  falchions  bright, 

No  stirring  battle-cry ; 
The  bloodless  stabber  calls  by  night, — 

Each  answers,  ' '  Here  am  I  !  " 


196  THE  AUTOCRAT 

For  those  the  sculptor's  laurelled  bust, 

The  builder's  marble  piles, 
The  anthems  pealing  o'er  their  dust 

Through  long  cathedral  aisles. 

For  these  the  blossom-sprinkled  turf 
That  floods  the  lonely  graves, 

When  Spring  rolls  in  her  sea-green  surf 
In  flowery-foaming  waves. 

Two  paths  lead  upward  from  below, 

And  angels  wait  above, 
Who  count  each  burning  life-drop's  flow, 

Each  falling  tear  of  Love. 

Though  from  the  Hero's  bleeding  breast 

Her  pulses  Freedom  drew, 
Though  the  white  lilies  in  her  crest 

Sprang  from  that  scarlet  dew, — 

While  Valour's  haughty  champions  wait 
Till  all  their  scars  are  shown, 

Love  walks  unchallenged  through  the  gate, 
To  sit  beside  the  throne  ! 


[THE  schoolmistress  came  down  with  a  rose  in  her 
hair, — a  fresh  June  rose.  She  has  been  walking 
early  ;  she  has  brought  back  two  others, — one  on  each 
cheek. 

I  told  her  so,  in  some  such  pretty  phrase  as  I  could 
muster  for  the  occasion.  Those  two  blush  roses  I 
just  spoke  of  turned  into  a  couple  of  damasks.  I 
suppose  all  this  went  through  my  mind,  for  this  was 
what  I  went  on  to  say  : — ] 

I  love  the  damask  rose  best  of  all.  The  flowers 
our  mothers  and  sisters  used  to  love  and  cherish, 
those  which  grow  beneath  our  eaves  and  by  our  door- 
step, are  the  ones  we  always  love  best.  If  the  Houy- 
hnhnms  should  ever  catch  me,  and,  finding  me 
particularly  vicious  and  unmanageable,  send  a  man- 
tamer  to  Rareyfy  me,  I'll  tell  you  what  drugs  he  would 
have  to  take  and  how  he  would  have  to  use  them. 
Imagine  yourself  reading  a  number  of  the  Houyhnhnm 
Gazette,  giving  an  account  of  such  an  experiment. 

"MAN-TAMING  EXTRAORDINARY 

"  The  soft-hoofed  semi-quadruped  recently  captured 
was  subjected  to  the  art  of  our  distinguished  man- 
tamer  in  presence  of  a  numerous  assembly.  The 
animal  was  led  in  by  two  stout  ponies,  closely  con- 
fined by  straps  to  prevent  his  sudden  and  dangerous 
tricks  of  shoulder-hitting  and  foot-striking.  His 
countenance  expressed  the  utmost  degree  of  ferocity 
and  cunning. 

"  The  operator  took  a  handful  of  budding  lilac-leaves, 
and  crushing  them  slightly  between  his  hoofs,  so  as 


198  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

to  bring  out  their  peculiar  fragrance,  fastened  them 
to  the  end  of  a  long  pole  and  held  them  towards  the 
creature.  Its  expression  changed  in  an  instant, — it 
drew  in  their  fragrance  eagerly,  and  attempted  to  seize 
them  with  its  soft  split  hoofs.  Having  thus  quieted 
his  suspicious  subject,  the  operator  proceeded  to  tie  a 
blue  hyacinth  to  the  end  of  the  pole  and  held  it  out 
towards  the  wild  animal.  The  effect  was  magical.  Its 
eyes  filled  as  if  with  rain  drops,  and  its  lips  trembled 
as  it  pressed  them  to  the  flower.  After  this  it  was 
perfectly  quiet,  and  brought  a  measure  of  corn  to  the 
man-tamer,  without  showing  the  least  disposition  to 
strike  with  the  feet  or  hit  from  the  shoulder." 

That  will  do  for  the  Houyhnhnm  Gazette. — Do  you 
ever  wonder  why  poets  talk  so  much  about  flowers? 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  poet  who  did  not  talk  about 
them  ?  Don't  you  think  a  poem,  which,  for  the  sake 
of  being  original  should  leave  them  out,  would  be  like 
those  verses  where  the  letter  a  or  e  or  some  other  is 
omitted  ?  No, — they  will  bloom  over  and  over  again 
in  poems  as  in  the  summer  fields,  to  the  end  of  time, 
always  old  and  always  new.  Why  should  we  be  more 
shy  of  repeating  ourselves  than  the  spring  be  tired  of 
blossoms,  or  the  night  of  stars?  Look  at  Nature. 
She  never  wearies  of  saying  over  her  floral  paternoster. 
In  the  crevices  of  Cyclopean  walls, — in  the  dust  where 
men  lie,  dust  also, — on  the  mounds  that  bury  huge 
cities,  the  wreck  of  Nineveh  and  the  Babel-heap, — 
still  that  same  sweet  prayer  and  benediction.  The 
Amen  !  of  Nature  is  always  a  flower. 

Are  you  tired  of  my  trivial  personalities, — those 
splashes  and  streaks  of  sentiment,  sometimes  perhaps 
of  sentimentality,  which  you  may  see  when  I  show 
you  my  heart's  corolla  as  if  it  were  a  tulip  ?  Pray,  do 
not  give  yourself  the  trouble  to  fancy  me  an  idiot 
whose  conceit  it  is  to  treat  himself  as  an  exceptional 
being.  It  is  because  you  are  just  like  me  that  I  talk 
and  know  that  you  will  listen.  We  are  all  splashed 
and  streaked  with  sentiments, — not  with  precisely  the 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  199 

same  tints,  or  in  exactly  the  same  patterns,  but  by  the 
same  hand  and  from  the  same  palette. 

I  don't  believe  any  of  you  happen  to  have  just  the 
same  passion  for  the  blue  hyacinth  which  I  have, — > 
very  certainly  not  for  the  crushed  lilac-leaf-buds ; 
many  of  you  do  not  know  how  sweet  they  are.  You 
love  the  smell  of  the  sweet-fern  and  the  bayberry- 
leaves,  I  don't  doubt ;  but  I  hardly  think  that  the  last 
bewitches  you  with  young  memories  as  it  does  me. 
For  the  same  reason  I  come  back  to  damask  roses, 
after  having  raised  a  good  many  of  the  rarer  varieties. 
I  like  to  go  to  operas  and  concerts,  but  there  are 
queer  little  old  homely  sounds  that  are  better  than 
music  to  me.  However,  I  suppose  it's  foolish  to  tell 
such  things. 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  foolish  at  the  right  time, — 

said  the  divinity-student ; — saying  it,  however,  in  one 
of  the  dead  languages,  which  I  think  are  unpopular 
for  summer-reading,  and  therefore  do  not  bear  quotation 
as  such. 

Well,  now, — said  I, — suppose  a  good,  clean,  whole- 
some-looking countryman's  cart  stops  opposite  my 
door. — Do  I  want  any  huckleberries  ? — If  I  do  not, 
there  are  those  that  do.  Thereupon  my  soft-voiced 
handmaid  bears  out  a  large  tin-pan,  and  then  the 
wholesome  countryman,  heaping  the  peck-measure, 
spreads  his  broad  hands  around  its  lower  arc  to  confine 
the  wild  and  frisky  berries,  and  so  they  run  nimbly 
along  the  narrowing  channel  until  they  tumble  rustling 
down  in  a  black  cascade  and  tinkle  on  the  resounding 
metal  beneath. — I  won't  say  that  this  rushing  huckle- 
berry hail-storm  has  not  more  music  for  me  than  the 
"  Anvil  Chorus." 

I  wonder  how  my  great  trees  are  coming  on  this 

summer. 

Where  are  your  great  trees,  sir? — said  the 

divinity-student. 

Oh,  all  round  about  New  England.  I  call  all  trees 
mine  that  I  have  put  my  wedding-ring  on,  and  I  have 
as  many  tree-wives  as  Brigham  Young  has  human  ones. 


200  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

One  set's  as  green  as  the  other, — exclaimed 

a  boarder,  who  has  never  been  identified. 

They're  all  Bloomers, — said  the  young  fellow  called 
John. 

[I  should  have  rebuked  this  trifling  with  language, 
if  our  landlady's  daughter  had  not  asked  me  just 
then  what  I  meant  by  putting  my  wedding-ring  on  a 
tree.] 

Why,  measuring  it  with  my  thirty-foot  tape,  my 
dear, — said  J, — I  have  worn  a  tape  almost  out  on  the 
rough  barks  of  our  old  New  England  elms  and  other 
big  trees. — Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  talk  about 
trees  a  little  now  ?  That  is  one  of  my  specialities. 

[So  they  all  agreed  that  they  should  like  to  hear  me 
talk  about  trees.] 

I  want  you  to  understand,  in  the  first  place,  that  I 
have  a  most  intense,  passionate  fondness  for  trees  in 
general,  and  have  had  several  romantic  attachments 
to  certain  trees  in  particular.  Now,  if  you  expect  me 
to  hold  forth  in  a  "  scientific "  way  about  my  tree- 
loves, — to  talk,  for  instance,  of  the  Ulmus  Americana, 
and  describe  the  ciliated  edges  of  its  samara,  and  all 
that, — you  are  an  anserine  individual,  and  I  must  refer 
you  to  a  dull  friend  who  will  discourse  to  you  of  such 
matters.  What  should  you  think  of  a  lover  who  should 
describe  the  idol  of  his  heart  in  the  language  of  science, 
thus  :  Class,  Mammalia ;  Order,  Primates  ;  Genus, 
Homo ;  Species,  Europeus ;  Variety,  Brown  ;  In- 
dividual, Ann  Eliza ;  Dental 

2—2     1—1     2—2      3—3 

Formula,  i c p m ,  and  so  on  ? 

2—2     1—1     2—2      3—3 

No,  my  friends,  I  shall  speak  of  trees  as  we  see 
them,  love  them,  adore  them  in  the  fields,  where  they 
are  alive,  holding  their  green  sunshades  over  our 
heads,  talking  to  us  with  their  hundred  thousand 
whispering  tongues,  looking  down  on  us  with  that 
sweet  meekness  which  belongs  to  huge,  but  limited 
organisms, — which  one  sees  in  the  brown  eyes  of 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  201 

oxen,  but  most  in  the  patient  posture,  the  outstretched 
arms,  and  the  heavy-drooping  robes  of  these  vast  beings 
endowed  with  life,  but  not  with  soul, — which  outgrow 
us  and  outlive  us,  but  stand  helpless, — poor  things  ! — 
while  Nature  dresses  and  undresses  them,  like  so  many 
full-sized,  but  under-witted,  children. 

Did  you  ever  read  old  Daddy  Gilpinr1  Slowest  of 
men,  even  of  Englishmen ;  yet  delicious  in  his  slow- 
ness, as  is  the  light  of  a  sleepy  eye  in  woman.  I 
always  supposed  "  Dr  Syntax"  was  written  to  make 
fun  of  him.  I  have  a  whole  set  of  his  works,  and  am 
very  proud  of  it,  with  its  gray  paper,  and  open  type, 
and  long  ff,  and  orange  juice  landscapes.  The  Pere 
Gilpin  had  the  kind  of  science  I  like  in  the  study  of 
Nature, — a  little  less  observation  than  White  of 
Sel borne,  but  a  little  more  poetry. — Just  think  of 
applying  the  Linnaean  system  to  an  elm  !  Who  cares 
how  many  stamens  or  pistils  that  little  brown  flower, 
which  comes  out  before  the  leaf,  may  have  to  classify 
it  by  ?  What  we  want  is  the  meaning,  the  character, 
the  expression  of  a  tree,  as  a  kind  and  as  an  individual. 

There  is  a  mother-idea  in  each  particular  kind  of 
tree,  which,  if  well  marked,  is  probably  embodied  in 
the  poetry  of  every  language.  Take  the  oak,  foi 
instance,  and  we  find  it  always  standing  as  a  type  of 
strength  and  endurance.  I  wonder  if  you  ever  thought 
of  the  single  mark  of  supremacy  which  distinguishes 
this  tree  from  all  our  other  forest-trees  ?  All  the  rest 
of  them  shirk  the  work  of  resisting  gravity  ;  the  oak 
alone  defies  it.  It  chooses  the  horizontal  direction  for 
its  limbs,  so  that  their  whole  weight  may  tell, — and 
then  stretches  them  out  fifty  or  sixty  feet,  so  that  the 
strain  may  be  mighty  enough  to  be  worth  resisting. 
You  will  find,  that,  in  passing  from  the  extreme  down- 
ward droop  of  the  branches  of  the  weeping  willow  to 
the  extreme  upward  inclination  of  those  of  the  poplar, 
they  sweep  nearly  half  a  circle.  At  90°  the  oak  stops 
short ;  to  slant  upward  another  degree  would  mark 
infirmity  of  purpose  ;  to  bend  downwards,  weakness  of 
organization.  The  American  elm  betrays  something 


202  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

of  both  ;  yet  sometimes,  as  we  shall  see,  puts  on  a 
certain  resemblance  to  its  sturdier  neighbour. 

It  won't  do  to  be  exclusive  in  our  taste  about  trees. 
There  is  hardly  one  of  them  which  has  not  peculiar 
beauties  in  some  fitting  place  for  it.  I  remember  a 
tall  poplar  of  monumental  proportions  and  aspect,  a 
vast  pillar  of  glossy  green,  placed  on  the  summit  of  a 
lofty  hill,  and  a  beacon  to  all  the  country  round.  A 
native  of  that  region  saw  fit  to  build  his  house  very 
near  it,  and,  having  a  fancy  that  it  might  blow  down 
some  time  or  other,  and  exterminate  himself  and  any 
incidental  relatives  who  might  be  "  stopping "  or 
"tarrying"  with  him, — also  labouring  under  the 
delusion  that  human  life  is  under  all  circumstances  to 
be  preferred  to  vegetable  existence, — had  the  great 
poplar  cut  down.  It  is  so  easy  to  say,  "  It  is  only  a 
poplar  ! "  and  so  much  harder  to  replace  its  living  cone 
than  to  build  a  granite  obelisk  ! 

I  must  tell  you  about  some  of  my  tree-wives.  I 
was  at  one  period  of  my  life  much  devoted  to  the 
young  lady  population  of  Rhode  Island,  a  small,  but 
delightful  State  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Pawtucket. 
The  number  of  inhabitants  being  not  very  large,  I 
had  leisure,  during  my  visits  to  the  Providence 
Plantations,  to  inspect  the  face  of  the  country  in  the 
intervals  of  more  fascinating  studies  of  physiognomy. 
I  heard  some  talk  of  a  great  elm  a  short  distance  from 
the  locality  just  mentioned.  "  Let  us  see  the  great 
elm/' — I  said,  and  proceeded  to  find  it, — knowing 
that  it  was  on  a  certain  farm  in  a  place  called  John- 
ston, if  I  remember  rightly.  I  shall  never  forget  my 
ride  and  my  introduction  to  the  great  Johnston  elm. 

I  always  tremble  for  a  celebrated  tree  when  I 
approach  it  for  the  first  time.  Provincialism  has  no 
scale  of  excellence  in  man  or  vegetable  ;  it  never 
knows  a  first-rate  article  of  either  kind  when  it  has  it, 
and  is  constantly  taking  second  and  third  rate  ones  for 
Nature's  best.  I  have  often  fancied  the  tree  was  afraid 
of  me,  and  that  a  sort  of  shiver  came  over  it  as  over  a 
betrothed  maiden  when  she  first  stands  before  the 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  203 

unknown  to  whom  she  has  been  plighted.  Before  the 
measuring-tape  the  proudest  tree  of  them  all  quails  and 
shrinks  into  itself.  All  those  stories  of  four  or  five 
men  stretching  their  arms  around  it  and  not  touching 
each  other's  fingers,  of  one's  pacing  the  shadow  at  noon 
and  making  it  so  many  hundred  feet,  die  upon  its  leafy 
lips  in  the  presence  of  the  awful  ribbon  which  has 
strangled  so  many  false  pretensions. 

As  I  rode  along  the  pleasant  way,  watching  eagerly 
for  the  object  of  my  journey,  the  rounded  tops  of  the 
elms  rose  from  time  to  time  at  the  roadside.  Where- 
ever  one  looked  taller  and  fuller  than  the  rest,  I  asked 
myself,  "  Is  this  it  ?  "  But  as  I  drew  nearer  they  grew 
smaller,  or  it  proved,  perhaps,  that  two  standing  in  a 
line  had  looked  like  one,  and  so  deceived  me.  At  last, 
all  at  once,  when  I  was  not  thinking  of  it, — I  declare 
to  you  it  makes  my  flesh  creep  when  I  think  of  it  now, 
— all  at  once  I  saw  a  great  green  cloud  swelling  in  the 
horizon,  so  vast,  so  symmetrical,  of  such  Olympian 
majesty  and  imperial  supremacy  among  the  lesser  forest 
growths,  that  my  heart  stopped  short,  then  jumped  at 
my  ribs  as  a  hunter  springs  at  a  five-barred  gate,  and 
I  felt  all  through  me,  without  need  of  uttering  the 
words,—"  This  is  it !  " 

You  will  find  this  tree  described,  with  many  others, 
in  the  excellent  Report  upon  the  Trees  and  Shrubs  of 
Massachusetts.  The  author  has  given  my  friend  the 
Professor  credit  for  some  of  his  measurements,  but 
measured  this  tree  himself,  carefully.  It  is  a  grand 
elm  for  size  of  trunk,  spread  of  limbs,  and  muscular 
development, — one  of  the  first,  perhaps  the  first,  of 
the  first  class  of  New  England  elms. 

The  largest  actual  girth  I  have  ever  found  at  five 
feet  from  the  ground  is  in  the  great  elm  lying  a  stone's 
throw  or  two  north  of  the  main  road  (if  my  points 
of  compass  are  right)  in  Springfield.  But  this  has 
much  the  appearance  of  having  been  formed  by  the 
union  of  two  trunks  growing  side  by  side. 

The  West  Springfield  elm  and  one  upon  North- 
ampton meadows  belong  also  to  the  first  class  of  trees. 


204  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

There  is  a  noble  old  wreck  of  an  elm  at  Hatfield, 
which  used  to  spread  its  claws  out  over  a  circumference 
of  thirty-live  feet  or  more  before  they  covered  the  foot 
of  its  bole  up  with  earth.  This  is  the  American  elm 
most  like  an  oak  of  any  I  have  ever  seen. 

The  Sheffield  elm  is  equally  remarkable  for  size  and 
perfection  of  form.  I  have  seen  nothing  that  comes 
near  it  in  Berkshire  county,  and  few  to  compare  with 
it  anywhere.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  remember  any 
other  first-class  elms  in  New-England,  but  there  may 
be  many. 

What  makes  a  first-class  elm  ? — Why,  size,  in 

the  first  place,  and  chiefly.  Anything  over  twenty 
feet  of  clear  girth,  five  feet  above  the  ground,  and 
with  a  spread  of  branches  a  hundred  feet  across,  may 
claim  that  title,  according  to  my  scale.  All  of  them, 
with  the  questionable  exception  of  the  Springfield  tree 
above  referred  to,  stop,  so  far  as  my  experience  goes, 
at  about  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  feet  of  girth  and  a 
hundred  and  twenty  of  spread. 

Elms  of  the  second  class,  generally  ranging  from 
fourteen  to  eighteen  feet,  are  comparatively  common. 
The  queen  of  them  all  is  that  glorious  tree  near  one 
of  the  churches  in  Springfield.  Beautiful  and  stately 
she  is  beyond  all  praise.  The  "  great  tree"  on  Boston 
Common  comes  in  the  second  rank,  as  does  the  one 
at  Cohasset,  which  used  to  have,  and  probably  has 
still,  a  head  as  round  as  an  apple-tree,  and  that  at 
Newburyport,  with  scores  of  others  which  might  be 
mentioned.  These  last  two  have  perhaps  been  over- 
celebrated.  Both,  however,  are  pleasing  vegetables. 
The  poor  old  Pittsfield  elm  lives  on  its  past  reputa- 
tion. A  wig  of  false  leaves  is  indispensable  to  make 
it  presentable. 

[I  don't  doubt  there  may  be  some  monster  elm  or 
other,  vegetating  green,  but  inglorious,  in  some  re- 
mote New  England  village,  which  only  wants  a  sacred 
singer  to  make  it  celebrated.  Send  us  your  measure- 
ments,— (certified  by  the  postmaster,  to  avoid  possible 
imposition), — circumference  five  feet  from  soil,  length 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  205 

of  line  from  bough-end  to  bough-end,  and  we  will  see 
what  can  be  done  for  you.] 

I  wish  somebody  would  get  up  the  following 

work  : — 

SYLVA   NOVANGLICA 

Photographs  of  New  England  Elms  and  other  Trees 
taken  upon  the  Same  Scale  of  Magnitude.  With 
Letter-Press  Descriptions,  by  a  Distinguished  Literary 
Gentleman.  Boston  : &  Co.  18  ... 

The  same  camera  should  be  used, — so  far  as  possible, 
— at  a  fixed  distance.  Our  friend,  who  has  given  us 
so  many  interesting  figures  in  his  "  Trees  of  America," 
must  not  think  this  Prospectus  invades  his  province  ;  a 
dozen  portraits,  with  lively  descriptions,  would  be  a 
pretty  complement  to  his  larger  work,  which,  so  far 
as  published,  I  find  excellent.  If  my  plan  were  carried 
out,  and  another  series  of  a  dozen  English  trees  photo- 
graphed on  the  same  scale,  the  comparison  would  be 
charming. 

It  has  always  been  a  favourite  idea  of  mine  to 
bring  the  life  of  the  Old  and  the  New  World  face 
to  face,  by  an  accurate  comparison  of  their  various 
types  of  organization.  We  should  begin  with  man, 
of  course  ;  institute  a  large  and  exact  comparison 
between  the  development  of  la  pianta  umana,  as 
Alfieri  called  it,  in  different  sections  of  each  country, 
in  the  different  callings,  at  different  ages,  estimating 
height,  weight,  force  by  the  dynamometer  and  the 
spirometer,  and  finishing  off  with  a  series  of  typical 
photographs,  giving  the  principal  national  physiog- 
nomies. Mr  Hutchinson  has  given  us  some  excellent 
English  data  to  begin  with. 

Then  I  would  follow  this  up  by  contrasting  the 
various  parallel  forms  of  life  in  the  two  continents. 
Our  naturalists  have  often  referred  to  this  incidentally 
or  expressly ;  but  the  animus  of  Nature  in  the  two 
half  globes  of  the  planet  is  so  momentous  a  point  of 
interest  to  our  race,  that  it  should  be  made  a  subject 
of  express  and  elaborate  study.  Go  out  with  me  into 


206  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

that  walk  which  we  call  the  Matt,  and  look  at  the 
English  and  American  elms.  The  American  elm  is 
tall,  graceful,  slender-sprayed,  and  drooping  as  if  from 
languor.  The  English  elm  is  compact,  robust,  holds 
its  branches  up,  and  carries  its  leaves  for  weeks  longer 
than  our  own  native  tree. 

Is  this  typical  of  the  creative  force  on  the  two 
sides  of  the  ocean,  or  not?  Nothing  but  a  careful 
comparison  through  the  whole  realm  of  life  can  answer 
this  question. 

There  is  a  parallelism  without  identity  in  the  animal 
and  vegetable  life  of  the  two  continents,  which  favours 
the  task  of  comparison  in  an  extraordinary  manner. 
Just  as  we  have  two  trees  alike  in  many  ways,  yet 
not  the  same,  both  elms,  yet  easily  distinguishable, 
just  so  we  have  a  complete  flora  and  a  fauna,  which, 
parting  from  the  same  ideal,  embody  it  with  various 
modifications.  Inventive  power  is  the  only  quality  of 
which  the  Creative  Intelligence  seems  to  be  economi- 
cal :  just  as  with  our  largest  human  minds,  that  is 
the  divinest  of  faculties,  and  the  one  that  most  ex- 
hausts the  mind  which  exercises  it.  As  the  same 
patterns  have  very  commonly  been  followed,  we  can 
see  which  is  worked  out  in  the  largest  spirit,  and  de- 
termine the  exact  limitations  under  which  the  Creator 
places  the  movement  of  life  in  all  its  manifestations 
in  either  locality.  We  should  find  ourselves  in  a 
very  false  position,  if  it  should  prove  that  Anglo- 
Saxons  can't  live  here,  but  die  out,  if  not  kept  up 
by  fresh  supplies,  as  Dr  Knox  and  other  more  or 
less  wise  persons  have  maintained.  It  may  turn  out 
the  other  way,  as  I  have  heard  one  of  our  literary 
celebrities  argue, — and  though  I  took  the  other  side, 
I  liked  his  best, — that  the  American  is  the  Englishman 
reinforced. 

Will  you  walk  out  and  look  at  those  elms 

with  me  after  breakfast  ? — I  said  to  the  school-mistress. 

[I  am  not  going  to  tell  lies  about  it,  and  say  that 
she  blushed, — as  I  suppose  she  ought  to  have  done, 
at  such  a  tremendous  piece  of  gallantry  as  that  was 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  207 

for  our  boarding-bouse.  On  the  contrary,  she  turned 
a  little  pale, — but  smiled  brightly  and  said, — Yes, 
with  pleasure,  but  she  must  walk  towards  her  school. 
— She  went  for  her  bonnet. — The  old  gentleman 
opposite  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  and  said  he  wished 
he  was  a  young  fellow.  Presently  she  came  down, 
looking  very  pretty  in  her  half-mourning  bonnet,  and 
carrying  a  school-book  in  her  hand.  ] 

MY    FIRST    WALK    WITH    THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS 

This  is  the  shortest  way, —  she  said,  as  we  came 
to  a  corner. — Then  we  won't  take  it, — said  I. — The 
schoolmistress  laughed  a  little,  and  said  she  was  ten 
minutes  early,  so  she  could  go  round. 

We  walked  under  Mr  Paddock's  row  of  English 
elms.  The  gray  squirrels  were  out  looking  for  their 
breakfasts,  and  one  of  them  came  towards  us  in 
light,  soft,  intermittent  leaps,  until  he  was  close  to 
the  rail  of  the  burial-ground.  He  was  on  a  grave 
with  a  broad  blue-slatestone  at  its  head,  and  a  shrub 
growing  on  it.  The  stone  said  this  was  the  grave  of  a 
young  man  who  was  the  son  of  an  Honourable  gentle- 
man, and  who  died  a  hundred  years  ago  and  more. 
— O  yes,  died, — with  a  small  triangular  mark  in  one 
breast,  and  another  smaller  opposite,  in  his  back, 
where  another  young  man's  rapier  had  slid  through 
his  body  ;  and  so  he  lay  down  out  there  on  the 
Common,  and  was  found  cold  the  next  morning,  with 
the  night-dews  and  the  death-dews  mingled  on  his 
forehead. 

Let  us  have  one  look  at  poor  Benjamin's  grave, — 
said  I. — His  bones  lie  where  his  body  was  laid  so 
long  ago,  and  where  the  stone  says  they  lie, — which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  most  of  the  tenants  of 
this  and  several  other  burial  grounds. 

[The  most  accursed  act  of  Vandalism  ever  committed 
within  my  knowledge  was  the  uprooting  of  the  ancient 
gravestones  in  three  at  least  of  our  city  burial-grounds, 
and  one  at  least  just  outside  the  city,  and  planting 


208  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

them  in  rows  to  suit  the  taste  for  symmetry  of  the 
perpetrators.  Many  years  ago,  when  this  disgraceful 
process  was  going  on  under  my  eyes,  I  addressed  an 
indignant  remonstrance  to  a  leading  journal.  I 
suppose  it  was  deficient  in  literary  elegance,  or  too 
warm  in  its  language  ;  for  no  notice  was  taken  of  it, 
and  the  hyena-horror  was  allowed  to  complete  itself  in 
the  face  of  daylight.  I  have  never  got  over  it.  The 
bones  of  my  own  ancestors,  being  entombed,  lie 
beneath  their  own  tablet ;  but  the  upright  stones  have 
been  shuffled  about  like  chessmen,  and  nothing  short 
of  the  Day  of  Judgment  will  tell  whose  dust  lies 
beneath  any  of  those  records,  meant  by  affection  to 
mark  one  small  spot  as  sacred  to  some  cherished 
memory.  Shame  !  shame  !  shame  ! — that  is  all  1  can 
say.  It  was  on  public  thoroughfares,  under  the  eye  of 
authority,  that  this  infamy  was  enacted.  The  red 
Indians  would  have  known  better  ;  the  selectmen  of 
an  African  kraal-village  would  have  had  more  respect 
for  their  ancestors.  I  should  like  to  see  the  grave- 
stones which  have  been  disturbed  all  removed,  and  the 
ground  levelled,  leaving  the  flat  tombstones  ;  epitaphs 
were  never  famous  for  truth,  but  the  old  reproach  of 
"Here  lies"  never  had  such  a  wholesale  illustration 
as  in  these  outraged  burial-places,  where  the  stone 
does  lie  above,  and  the  bones  do  not  lie  beneath.] 

Stop  before  we  turn  away,  and  breathe  a  woman's 
sigh  over  poor  Benjamin's  dust.  Love  killed  him, 
I  think.  Twenty  years  old,  and  out  there  fighting 
another  young  fellow  on  the  Common,  in  the  cool  of 
that  old  July  evening  ; — yes,  there  must  have  been 
love  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

The  schoolmistress  dropped  a  rose-bud  she  had  in 
her  hand,  through  the  rails,  upon  the  grave  of 
Benjamin  Woodbridge.  That  was  all  her  comment 
upon  what  I  told  her. — How  women  love  Love,  said 
I  ; — but  she  did  not  speak. 

We  came  opposite  the  head  of  a  place  or  court 
running  eastward  from  the  main  street. — Look  down 
there, — I  said. — My  friend  the  Professor  lived  in  that 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  209 

house  at  the  left  hand,  next  the  farther  corner,  for 
years  and  years.  He  died  out  of  it,  the  other  day. — 
Died? — said  the  schoolmistress. — Certainly, — said  I. — 
We  die  out  of  houses,  just  as  we  die  out  of  our  bodies. 
A  commercial  smash  kills  a  hundred  men's  houses  for 
them,  as  a  railroad  crash  kills  their  mortal  frames  and 
drives  out  the  immortal  tenants.  Men  sicken  of 
houses  until  at  last  they  quit  them,  as  the  soul  leaves 
its  body  when  it  is  tired  of  its  infirmities.  The  body 
has  been  called  "  the  house  we  live  in"  ;  the  house  is 
quite  as  much  the  body  we  live  in.  Shall  I  tell  you 
some  things  the  Professor  said  the  other  day  ? — Do  ! — 
said  the  schoolmistress. 

A  man's  body, — said  the  Professor, — is  whatever  is 
occupied  by  his  will  and  his  sensibility.  The  small 
room  down  there,  where  I  wrote  those  papers  you 
remember  reading,  was  much  more  a  portion  of  my 
body  than  a  paralytic's  senseless  and  motionless  arm 
or  leg  is  of  his. 

The  soul  of  a  man  has  a  series  of  concentric 
envelopes  round  it,  like  the  core  of  an  onion,  or  the 
innermost  of  a  nest  of  boxes.  First,  he  has  his  natural 
garment  of  flesh  and  blood.  Then,  his  artificial 
integuments,  with  their  true  skin  of  solid  stuffs,  their 
cuticle  of  lighter  tissues,  and  their  variously-tinted 
pigments.  Thirdly,  his  domicile,  be  it  a  single 
chamber  or  a  stately  mansion.  And  then,  the  whole 
visible  world,  in  which  Time  buttons  him  up  as  in  a 
loose  outside  wrapper. 

You  shall  observe, — the  Professor  said, — for,  like 
Mr  John  Hunter  and  other  great  men,  he  brings  in 
that  shall  with  great  effect  sometimes, — you  shall 
observe  that  a  man's  clothing  or  series  of  envelopes 
does  after  a  certain  time  mould  itself  upon  his  indi- 
vidual nature.  We  know  this  of  our  hats,  and  are 
always  reminded  of  it  when  we  happen  to  put  them 
on  wrong  side  foremost.  We  soon  find  that  the 
beaver  is  a  hollow  cast  of  the  skull,  with  all  its 
irregular  bumps  and  depressions.  Just  so  all  that 
clothes  a  man,  even  to  the  blue  sky  which  caps  his 


210  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

head, — a  little  loosely,  —  shapes  itself  to  fit  each 
particular  being  beneath  it.  Farmers,  sailors,  astrono- 
mers, poets,  lovers,  condemned  criminals,  all  find  it 
different,  according  to  the  eyes  with  which  they 
severally  look. 

But  our  houses  shape  themselves  palpably  on  our 
inner  and  outer  natures.  See  a  householder  breaking 
up  and  you  will  be  sure  of  it.  There  is  a  shell-fish 
which  builds  all  manner  of  smaller  shells  into  the 
walls  of  its  own.  A  house  is  never  a  home  until  we 
have  crusted  it  with  the  spoils  of  a  hundred  lives 
besides  those  of  our  own  past.  See  what  these  are 
and  you  can  tell  what  the  occupant  is. 

I  had  no  idea, — said  the  Professor, — until  I  pulled 
up  my  domestic  establishment  the  other  day,  what  an 
enormous  quantity  of  roots  I  had  been  making  during 
the  years  I  was  planted  there.  Why,  there  wasn't  a 
nook  or  a  corner  that  some  fibre  had  not  worked  its 
way  into  ;  and  when  I  gave  the  last  wrench,  each  of 
them  seemed  to  shriek  like  a  mandrake,  as  it  broke 
its  hold  and  came  away. 

There  is  nothing  that  happens,  you  know,  which 
must  not  inevitably,  and  which  does  not  actually, 
photograph  itself  in  every  conceivable  aspect  and  in  all 
dimensions.  The  infinite  galleries  of  the  Past  await 
but  one  brief  process  and  all  their  pictures  will  be 
called  out  and  fixed  for  ever.  We  had  a  curious 
illustration  of  the  great  fact  on  a  very  humble  scale. 
When  a  certain  bookcase,  long  standing  in  one  place, 
for  which  it  was  built,  was  removed,  there  was  the 
exact  image  on  the  wall  of  the  whole,  and  of  many  of 
its  portions.  But  in  the  midst  of  this  picture  was 
another, — the  precise  outline  of  a  map  which  had 
hung  on  the  wall  before  the  bookcase  was  built.  We 
had  all  forgotten  everything  about  the  map  until  we 
saw  its  photograph  on  the  wall.  Then  we  remembered 
it,  as  some  day  or  other  we  may  remember  a  sin  which 
lias  been  built  over  and  covered  up,  when  this  lower 
universe  is  pulled  away  from  before  the  wall  of  Infinity, 
where  the  wrong-doing  stands  self-recorded. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  211 

The  Professor  lived  in  that  house  a  long  time, — not 
twenty  years,  but  pretty  near  it.  When  he  entered 
that  door,  two  shadows  glided  over  the  threshold  ; 
five  lingered  in  the  doorway  when  he  passed  through 
it  for  the  last  time, — and  one  of  the  shadows  was 
claimed  by  its  owner  to  be  longer  than  his  own. 
What  changes  he  saw  in  that  quiet  place  !  Death 
rained  through  every  roof  but  his  ;  children  came  into 
life,  grew  to  maturity,  wedded,  faded  away,  threw 
themselves  away  ;  the  whole  drama  of  life  was  played 
in  that  stock-company's  theatre  of  a  dozen  houses, 
one  of  which  was  his,  and  no  deep  sorrow  or  severe 
calamity  ever  entered  his  dwelling.  Peace  be  to  those 
walls  for  ever, — the  Professor  said, — for  the  many 
pleasant  years  he  has  passed  within  them  ! 

The  Professor  has  a  friend,  now  living  at  a  distance, 
who  has  been  with  him  in  many  of  his  changes  of 
place,  and  who  follows  him  in  imagination  with  tender 
interest  wherever  he  goes. — In  that  little  court,  where 
he  lived  in  gay  loneliness  so  long, — 

—  in  his  autumnal  sojourn  by  the  Connecticut, 
where  it  comes  loitering  down  from  its  mountain 
fastnesses  like  a  great  lord,  swallowing  up  the  small 
proprietary  rivulets  very  quietly  as  it  goes,  until  it 
gets  proud  and  swollen  and  wantons  in  huge  luxurious 
oxbows  about  the  fair  Northampton  meadows,  and 
at  last  overflows  the  oldest  inhabitant's  memory  in 
profligate  freshets  at  Hartford  and  all  along  its  lower 
shores, — up  in  that  caravansary  on  the  banks  of  the 
stream  where  Ledyard  launched  his  long  canoe,  and 
the  jovial  old  Colonel  used  to  lead  the  Commence- 
ment processions, — where  blue  Ascutney  looked  down 
from  the  far  distance,  and  the  hills  of  Beulah,  as  the 
Professor  always  called  them,  rolled  up  the  opposite 
horizon  in  soft  climbing  masses,  so  suggestive  of  the 
Pilgrim's  Heavenward  Path  that  he  used  to  look 
through  his  old  "  Uolland  "  to  see  if  the  Shining  Ones 
were  not  within  range  of  sight, — sweet  visions,  sweetest 
in  those  Sunday  walks  which  carry  them  by  the  peace- 
ful common,  through  the  solemn  village  lying  in 


212  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

cataleptic  stillness  under  the  shadow  of  the  rod  of 
Moses,  to  the  terminus  of  their  harmless  stroll, — the 
patulous  fage,  in  the  Professor's  classic  dialect, — the 
spreading  beach  in  more  familiar  phrase, — [stop  and 
breathe  here  a  moment,  for  the  sentence  is  not  done 
yet,  and  we  have  another  long  journey  before  us,] — 

—  and  again  once  more  up  among  those  other  hills 
that   shut    in    the   amber-flowing    Housatonic, — dark 
stream,  but  clear,  like  the  lucid  orbs  that  shine  beneath 
the   lids   of   auburn-haired,    sherry-wine-eyed,   demi- 
blondes, — in  the  home  overlooking  the  winding  stream 
and  the  smooth,  flat  meadow ;  looked  down  upon  by 
wild  hills,  where  the  tracks  of  bears  and  catamounts 
may  yet  sometimes  be  seen  upon  the  winter   snow  ; 
facing  the  twin  summits  which  rise  in  the  far  North, 
the  highest  waves  of  the  great  land-storm  in  all  this 
billowy   region, — suggestive    to    mad   fancies  of   the 
breasts  of  a  half-buried  Titaness,  stretched  out  by  a 
stray  thunderbolt,  and  hastily  hidden   away  beneath 
the  leaves  of  the  forest, — in  that  home  where  seven 
blessed  summers  were  passed,  which  stand  in  memory 
like  the  seven  golden  candlesticks  in  the  beatific  vision 
of  the  holy  dreamer, 

—  in  that  modest  dwelling  we  were  just  looking  at, 
not  glorious,  yet  not  unlovely  in  the  youth  of  its  drab 
and   mahogany, — full   of  great  and  little  boys'  play- 
things from  top  to  bottom, — in  all  these  summer  or 
winter    nests    he   was  always   at  home    and    always 
welcome. 

This  long  articulated  sigh  of  reminiscences, — this 
calenture  which  shows  me  the  maple-shadowed  plains 
of  Berkshire  and  the  mountain-circled  green  of  Grafton 
beneath  the  salt  waves  which  come  feeling  their  way 
along  the  wall  at  my  feet,  restless  and  soft-touching  as 
blind  men's  busy  fingers, — is  for  that  friend  of  mine 
who  looks  into  the  waters  of  the  Patapsco  and  sees 
beneath  them  the  same  visions  which  paint  themselves 
for  me  in  the  green  depths  of  the  Charles. 

Did  I  talk  all  this  off  to  the  schoolmistress  ? — 

Why,  no,  of  course  not.  I  have  been  talking  with 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  213 

you,  the  reader,  for  the  last  ten  minutes.  You  don't 
think  I  should  expect  any  woman  to  listen  to  such  a 
sentence  as  that  long  one,  without  giving  her  a  chance 
to  put  in  a  word  ? 

What  did  I  say  to  the  schoolmistress? — 

Permit  me  one  moment.  I  don't  doubt  your  delicacy 
and  good-breeding  ;  but  in  this  particular  case,  as  I 
was  allowed  the  privilege  of  walking  alone  with  a  very 
interesting  young  woman,  you  must  allow  me  to 
remark,  in  the  classic  version  of  a  familiar  phrase, 
used  by  our  Master  Benjamin  Franklin,  it  is  nullum 
tui  negotii. 

When  the  schoolmistress  and  I  reached  the  school- 
room door,  the  damask  roses  I  spoke  of  were  so  much 
heightened  in  colour  by  exercise  that  I  felt  sure  it 
would  be  useful  to  her  to  take  a  stroll  like  this  every 
morning,  and  made  up  my  mind  I  would  ask  her  to 
let  me  join  her  again. 


EXTRACT    FROM    MY    PRIVATE    JOURNAL 

(To  be  burned  unread.} 

I  am  afraid  I  have  been  a  fool ;  for  I  have  told  as 
much  of  myself  to  this  young  person  as  if  she  were  of 
that  ripe  and  discreet  age  which  invites  confidence 
and  expansive  utterance.  I  have  been  low-spirited 
and  listless  lately,— it  is  coffee,  I  think, — (I  observe 
that  which  is  bought  ready-ground  never  affects  the 
head,) — and  I  notice  that  I  tell  my  secrets  too  easily 
when  I  am  down-hearted. 

There  are  inscriptions  on  our  hearts,  which,  like 
that  on  Dighton  Rock,  are  never  to  be  seen  except  at 
dead-low  tide. 

There  is  a  woman's  footstep  on  the  sand  at  the  side 
of  my  deepest  ocean-buried  inscription  ! 

O  no,  no,  no  !  a  thousand  times,  no  ! — Yet 

what  is  this  which  has  been  shaping  itself  in  my  soul  ? 
— Is  it  a  thought  ? — is  it  a  dream  ? — is  it  a  passion  ? — 
Then  I  know  what  comes  next. 


214  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

The  Asylum  stands   on  a  bright  and  breezy 

hill ;   those  glazed  corridors  are  pleasant  to  walk  in, 
in  bad  weather.     But  there  are  iron  bars  to  all  the 
windows.     When  it  is  fair,  some  of  us  can  stroll  out- 
side that  very  high  fence.     But  I  never  see  much  life 
in  those  groups  I  sometimes  meet ; — and  then  the  care- 
ful man  watches  them  so  closely  !     How  I  remember 
that  sad  company  I   used  to  pass  on  fine  mornings, 
when  I  was  a  school-boy  ! — B. ,  with  his  arms  full  of 
yellow  weeds, — ore  from  the  gold-mines  which  he  dis- 
covered long  before  we  heard  of  California, — Y.,  born 
to  millions,  crazed  by  too  much  plum-cake  (the  boys 
said),  dogged,  explosive, — made  a  Polyphemus  of  my 
weak-eyed  schoolmaster,  by  a  vicious  flirt  with  a  stick 
— (the  multi-millionaires  sent  him  a  trifle,  it  was  said, 
to  buy  another  eye  with  ;  but  boys  are  jealous  of  rich 
folks,  and  I  don't  doubt  the  good  people  made  him 
easy  for  life), — how  I  remember  them  all ! 

I  recollect,  as  all  do,  the  story  of  the  Hall  of  Eblis, 
in  "  Vathek,"  and  how  each  shape,  as  it  lifted  its 
hand  from  its  breast,  showed  its  heart,— a  burning 
coal.  The  real  Hall  of  Eblis  stands  on  yonder  summit. 
Go  there  on  the  next  visiting-day,  and  ask  that  figure 
crouched  in  the  corner,  huddled  up  like  those  Indian 
mummies  and  skeletons  found  buried  in  the  sitting 
posture,  to  lift  its  hand,— look  upon  its  heart,  and 
behold,  not  fire,  but  ashes. — No,  I  must  not  think 
of  such  an  ending !  Dying  would  be  a  much  more 
gentlemanly  way  of  meeting  the  difficulty.  Make  a 
will  and  leave  her  a  house  or  two  and  some  stocks, 
and  other  little  financial  conveniences,  to  take  away 
her  necessity  for  keeping  school. — I  wonder  what  nice 
young  man's  feat  would  be  in  my  French  slippers 
before  six  months  were  over  !  Well,  what  then  ?  If 
a  man  really  loves  a  woman,  of  course  he  wouldn't 
marry  her  for  the  world  if  he  were  not  quite  sure  that 
he  was  the  best  person  she  could  by  any  possibility 
marry. 

It  is  odd  enough  to  read  over  what  I  have 

just  been  writing.     It  is  the  merest  fancy  that  ever 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  215 

was  in  the  world.  I  shall  never  be  married.  She 
will ;  and  if  she  is  as  pleasant  as  she  has  been  so  far, 
I  will  give  her  a  silver  tea-set,  and  go  and  take  tea 
with  her  and  her  husband  sometimes.  No  coffee,  I 
hope,  though, — it  depresses  me  sadly.  I  feel  very 
miserably  ; — they  must  have  been  grinding  it  at  home. 
Another  morning  walk  will  be  good  for  me,  and  I 
don't  doubt  the  schoolmistress  will  be  glad  of  a  little 
fresh  air  before  school. 

The  throbbing  flushes  of  the  poetical  inter- 
mittent have  been  coming  over  me  from  time  to  time 
of  late.  Did  you  ever  see  that  electrical  experiment 
which  consists  in  passing  a  flash  through  letters  of 
gold  leaf  in  a  darkened  room,  whereupon  some  name 
or  legend  springs  out  of  the  darkness  in  characters  of 
firer 

There  are  songs  all  written  out  in  my  soul,  which  I 
could  read,  if  the  flash  might  pass  through  them, — 
but  the  fire  must  come  down  from  heaven.  Ah  !  but 
what  if  the  stormy  nimbus  of  youthful  passion  has 
blown  by,  and  one  asks  for  lightning  from  the  ragged 
cirrus  of  dissolving  aspirations,  or  the  silvered  cumulus 
of  sluggish  satiety?  I  will  call  on  her  whom  the 
dead  poets  believed  in,  whom  living  ones  no  longer 
worship, — the  immortal  maid,  who,  name  her  what 
you  will, — Goddess,  Muse,  Spirit  of  Beauty, — sits  by 
the  pillow  of  every  youthful  poet,  and  bends  over  his 
pale  forehead  until  her  tresses  lie  upon  his  cheek  and 
rain  their  gold  into  his  dreams. 

MUSA 

O  my  lost  beauty  ! — hast  thou  folded  quite 

Thy  wings  of  morning  light 

Beyond  those  iron  gates 

Where  Life  crowds  hurrying  to  the  haggard  Fates, 
And  Age  upon  his  mound  of  ashes  waits 

To  chill  our  fiery  dreams, 

Hot   from   the   heart   of  youth    plunged    in   his    icy 
streams  ? 


216  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

Leave  me  not  fading  in  these  weeds  of  care, 
Whose  flowers  are  silvered  hair  ! — 
Have  I  not  loved  thee  long, 

Though  my  young  lips  have  often  done  thee  wrong 

And  vexed  thy  heaven-tuned  ear  with  careless  song  ? 
Ah,  wilt  thou  yet  return, 

Bearing  thy  rose-hued  torch,  and  bid  thine  altar  burn  ? 

Come  to  me  ! — I  will  flood  thy  silent  shrine 

With  my  soul's  sacred  wine, 

And  heap  thy  marble  floors 

As  the  wild  spice-trees  waste  their  fragrant  stores 
In  leafy  islands  walled  with  madrepores 

And  lapped  in  Orient  seas, 

When  all  their  feathery  palms  toss,  plume-like,  in  the 
breeze. 

Come  to  me  ! — thou  shalt  feed  on  honeyed  words, 

Sweeter  than  song  of  birds  ; — 

No  wailing  bulbul's  throat, 
No  melting  dulcimer's  melodious  note, 
When  o'er  the  midnight  wave  its  murmurs  float, 

Thy  ravished  sense  might  soothe 
With  flow  so  liquid-soft,  with  strain  so  velvet  smooth. 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  jewels,  like  a  queen, 

Sought  in  those  bowers  of  green 

Where  loop  the  clustered  vines 
And  the  close-clinging  dulcamara  twines, — 
Pure  pearls  of  Maydew  where  the  moonlight  shines. 

And  Summer's  fruited  gems, 
And  coral  pendants  shorn  from  Autumn's  berried  stems. 

Sit  by  me  drifting  on  the  sleepy  waves, — 
Or  stretched  by  grass-grown  graves, 
Whose  gray,  high-shouldered  stones, 

Carved  with  old  names  Life's  time-worn  roll  disowns, 

Lean,  lichen-spotted,  o'er  the  crumbled  bones 
Still  slumbering  where  they  lay 

While  the  sad  Pilgrim  watched  to  scare  the  wolf  away. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  217 

Spread  o'er  my  couch  thy  visionary  wing  ! 

Still  let  me  dream  and  sing, — 

Dream  of  that  winding  shore 

Where  scarlet  cardinals  bloom, — for  me  no  more, — 
The  stream  with  heaven  beneath  its  liquid  floor, 

And  clustering  nenuphars 
Sprinkling  its  mirrored  blue  like  golden-chaliced  stars  ! 

Come  while  their  balms  the  linden-blossoms  shed  ' — 

Come  while  the  rose  is  red, — 

While  blue-eyed  Summer  smiles 
On  the  green  ripples  round  yon  sunken  piles 
Washed  by  the  moon-wave  warm  from  Indian  isles, 

And  on  the  sultry  air 

The  chestnuts  spread  their  palms  like  holy  men  in 
prayer ! 

O  for  thy  burning  lips  to  fire  my  brain 

With  thrills  of  wild  sweet  pain  ! — 

On  life's  autumnal  blast, 

Like  shrivelled  leaves,  youth's  passion-flowers  are  cast, — 
Once  loving  thee,  we  love  thee  to  the  last, — 

Behold  thy  new-decked  shrine, 

And  hear  once  more  the  voice  that  breathed  "For 
ever  thine ! " 


XI 

THE  company  looked  a  little  flustered  one  morning 
when  I  came  in, — so  much  so,  that  I  inquired  of  my 
neighbour,  the  divinity-student,  what  had  been  going 
on.  It  appears  that  the  young  fellow  whom  they  call 
John  had  taken  advantage  of  my  being  a  little  late  (I 
having  been  rather  longer  than  usual  dressing  that 
morning)  to  circulate  several  questions  involving  a 
quibble  or  play  upon  words, — in  short,  containing  that 
indignity  to  the  human  understanding,  condemned  in 
the  passages  from  the  distinguished  moralist  of  the 
last  century  and  the  illustrious  historian  of  the  present, 
which  I  cited  on  a  former  occasion,  and  known  as  a 
pun.  After  breakfast  one  of  the  boarders  handed  me 
a  small  roll  of  paper  containing  some  of  the  questions 
and  their  answers.  I  subjoin  two  or  three  of  them,  to 
show  what  a  tendency  there  is  to  frivolity  and  mean- 
ingless talk  in  young  persons  of  a  certain  sort,  when 
not  restrained  by  the  presence  of  more  reflective 
natures. — It  was  asked,  "  Why  tertian  and  quartan 
fevers  were  like  certain  short-lived  insects?"  Some 
interesting  physiological  relation  would  be  naturally 
suggested.  The  inquirer  blushes  to  find  that  the 
answer  is  in  the  paltry  equivocation,  that  they  skip  a 
day  or  two. — "  Why  an  Englishman  must  go  to  the 
Continent  to  weaken  his  grog  or  punch  ?  "  The  answer 
proves  to  have  no  relation  whatever  to  the  temperance 
movement,  as  no  better  reason  is  given  than  that 
island-  (or,  as  it  is  absurdly  written,  He  and)  water 
won't  mix. — But  when  I  came  to  the  next  question  and 
its  answer,  I  felt  that  patience  ceased  to  be  a  virtue. 
"Why  an  onion  is  like  a  piano "  is  a  query  that  a 
person  of  sensibility  would  be  slow  to  propose  ;  but 

218 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  219 

that  in  an  educated  community  an  individual  could  be 
found  to  answer  it  in  these  words, — "  Because  it  smell 
odious/'  quasi,  its  melodious, — is  not  credible,  but  too 
true.  I  can  show  you  the  paper. 

[Dear  reader,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  repeating  such 
things.  I  know  most  conversations  reported  in  books 
are  altogether  above  such  trivial  details,  but  folly  will 
come  up  at  every  table  as  surely  as  purslain  and  chick- 
weed  and  sorrel  will  come  up  in  gardens.  This  young 
fellow  ought  to  have  talked  philosophy,  I  know  per- 
fectly well ;  but  he  didn't, — he  made  jokes.] 

I  am  willing, — I  said, — to  exercise  your  ingenuity  in 
a  rational  and  contemplative  manner. — No,  I  do  not 
proscribe  certain  forms  of  philosophical  speculation 
which  involve  an  approach  to  the  absurd  or  the 
ludicrous,  such  as  you  may  find,  for  example,  in  the 
folio  of  the  Reverend  Father  Thomas  Sanchez,  in  his 
famous  Disputations,  "De  Sancto  Matrimonio."  I 
will  therefore  turn  this  levity  of  yours  to  profit  by 
reading  you  a  rhymed  problem,  wrought  out  by  my 
friend  the  Professor. 

THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE  ; 

OR,    THE    WONDERFUL    tf  ONE-HOSS    SHAY " 
A   LOGICAL   STORY 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it — ah,  but  stay, 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive, — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 


220  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon  town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  that  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot, — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace, — lurking  still, 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will, — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without, — 
And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  tell  yeou,") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  V  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could  n3  break  daown  : 
— "  Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain  ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke, — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills  ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills  ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees  ; 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these  ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum," — 

Last  of  its  timber, — they  couldn't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  221 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips  ; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide ; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through." — 
"  There : "  said  the  Deacon,  "  naow  she'll  dew." 

Do  !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren — where  were  they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  ;  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ; — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came  ; — 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it. — You're  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER, — the  Earthquake-day. — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavour  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 


222  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

There  couldn't  be, — for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out  I 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Huddop  ! "  said  the  parson. — Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text, — 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet' n' -house  on  the  hill. 

— First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock, — • 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

— What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground  ! 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce, 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That's  all  I  say. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  223 

I   think   there    is  one   habit, — I   said    to  our 

company  a  day  or  two  afterwards, — worse  than  that  of 
punning.  It  is  the  gradual  substitution  of  cant  or 
flash  terms  for  words  which  truly  characterise  their 
objects.  I  have  known  several  very  genteel  idiots 
whose  whole  vocabulary  had  deliquesced  into  some 
half-dozen  expressions.  All  things  fell  into  one  of 
two  great  categories,— -fast  or  slow.  Man's  chief  end 
was  to  be  a  brick.  When  the  great  calamities  of  life 
overtook  their  friends,  these  last  were  spoken  of  as 
being  a  good  deal  cut  up.  Nine-tenths  of  human 
existence  were  summed  up  in  the  single  word,  bore. 
These  expressions  come  to  be  the  algebraic  symbols 
of  minds  which  have  grown  too  weak  or  indolent  to 
discriminate.  They  are  the  blank  cheques  of  in- 
tellectual bankruptcy  ; — you  may  fill  them  up  with 
what  idea  you  like ;  it  makes  no  difference,  for  there 
are  no  funds  in  the  treasury  upon  which  they  are 
drawn.  Colleges  and  good-for-nothing  smoking-clubs 
are  the  places  where  these  conversational  fungi  spring 
up  most  luxuriantly.  Don't  think  I  undervalue  the 
proper  use  and  application  of  a  cant  word  or  phrase. 
It  adds  piquancy  to  conversation,  as  a  mushroom  does 
to  a  sauce.  But  it  is  no  better  than  a  toadstool,  odious 
to  the  sense  and  poisonous  to  the  intellect,  when  it 
spawns  itself  all  over  the  talk  of  men  and  youths  capable 
of  talking,  as  it  sometimes  does.  As  we  hear  flash 
phraseology,  it  is  commonly  the  dishwater  from  the 
washings  of  English  dandyism,  school-boy  or  full-grown, 
wrung  out  of  a  three-volume  novel  which  had  sopped  it 
up,  or  decanted  from  the  pictured  urn  of  Mr  Verdant 
Green,  and  diluted  to  suit  the  provincial  climate. 

The    young    fellow    called    John    spoke    up 

sharply  and  said  it  was  "  rum ''  to  hear  me  "  pitchin' 
into  fellers"  for  " goin'  it  in  the  slang  line,"  when  I 
used  all  the  flash  words  myself  just  when  I  pleased. 

I  replied  with  my  usual  forbearance.  Cer- 
tainly, to  give  up  the  algebraic  symbol,  because  a  or 
b  is  often  a  cover  for  ideal  nihility,  would  be  unwise. 
I  have  heard  a  child  labouring  to  express  a  certain 


224  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

condition,  involving  a  hitherto  undescribed  sensation 
(as  it  supposed),  all  of  which  could  have  been 
sufficiently  explained  by  the  participle  —  bored.  I 
have  seen  a  country  clergyman,  with  a  one-story 
intellect  and  a  one-horse  vocabulary,  who  has  con- 
sumed his  valuable  time  (and  mine)  freely  in  develop- 
ing an  opinion  of  a  brother-minister's  discourse 
which  would  have  been  abundantly  characterised  by 
a  peachdown-lipped  sophomore  in  the  one  word — 
slow.  Let  us  discriminate,  and  be  shy  of  absolute 
proscription.  I  am  omniverbivorous  by  nature  and 
training.  Passing  by  such  words  as  are  poisonous,  I 
can  swallow  most  others,  and  chew  such  as  I  cannot 
swallow. 

Dandies  are  not  good  for  much,  but  they  are  good 
for  something.  They  invent  or  keep  in  circulation 
those  conversational  blank  cheques  or  counters  just 
spoken  of,  which  intellectual  capitalists  may  some- 
times find  it  worth  their  while  to  borrow  of  them. 
They  are  useful,  too,  in  keeping  up  the  standard  of 
dress,  which,  but  for  them,  would  deteriorate,  and 
become,  what  some  old  fools  would  have  it,  a  matter 
of  convenience,  and  not  of  taste  and  art.  Yes,  1  like 
dandies  well  enough, — on  one  condition. 

What  is  that,  sir  ? — said  the  divinity-student. 

That  they  have  pluck.  I  find  that  lies  at  the 

bottom  of  all  true  dandyism.  A  little  boy  dressed 
up  very  fine,  who  puts  his  finger  in  his  mouth  and 
takes  to  crying  if  other  boys  make  fun  of  him,  looks 
very  silly.  But  if  he  turns  red  in  the  face  and  knotty 
in  the  fists,  and  makes  an  example  of  the  biggest  of 
his  assailants,  throwing  off  his  fine  Leghorn  and  his 
thickly-buttoned  jacket,  if  necessary,  to  consummate 
the  act  of  justice,  his  small  toggery  takes  on  the 
splendours  of  the  crested  helmet  that  frightened 
Astyanax.  You  remember  that  the  Duke  said  his 
dandy  officers  were  his  best  officers.  The  "  Sunday 
blood,"  the  super-superb  sartorial  equestrian  of  our 
annual  Fast-day,  is  not  imposing  or  dangerous.  But 
such  fellows  as  Brummel  and  D'Orsay  and  Byron  are 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  225 

not  to  be  snubbed  quite  so  easily.  Look  out  for  "  la 
main  de  fer  sous  le  gant  de  velours  "  (which  I  printed 
in  English  the  other  day  without  quotation-marks, 
thinking  whether  any  scarahceus  criticus  would  add 
this  to  his  globe  and  roll  in  glory  with  it  into  the 
newspapers, — which  he  didn't  do  it,  in  the  charming 
pleonasm  of  the  London  language,  and  therefore  I 
claim  the  sole  merit  of  exposing  the  same).  A  good 
many  powerful  and  dangerous  people  have  had  a 
decided  dash  of  dandyism  about  them.  There  was 
Alcibiades,  the  "  curled  son  of  Clinias,"  an  accom- 
plished young  man,  but  what  would  be  called  a 
"  swell "  in  these  days.  There  was  Aristoteles,  a 
very  distinguished  writer,  of  whom  you  have  heard, — 
a  philosopher,  in  short,  whom  it  took  centuries  to 
learn,  centuries  to  unlearn,  and  is  now  going  to  take 
a  generation  or  more  to  learn  over  again.  Regular 
dandy,  he  was.  So  was  Marcus  Antonius  ;  and 
though  he  lost  his  game,  he  played  for  big  stakes, 
and  it  wasn't  his  dandyism  that  spoiled  his  chance. 
Petrarca  was  not  to  be  despised  as  a  scholar  or  a 
poet,  but  he  was  one  of  the  same  sort.  So  was  Sir 
Humphrey  Davy  ;  so  was  Lord  Palmerston,  formerly, 
if  I  am  not  forgetful.  Yes, — a  dandy  is  good  for 
something  as  such ;  and  dandies  such  as  I  was  just 
speaking  of  have  rocked  this  planet  like  a  cradle, — 
ay,  and  left  it  swinging  to  this  day. — Still,  if  I  were 
you,  I  wouldn't  go  to  the  tailor's,  on  the  strength  of 
these  remarks,  and  run  up  a  long  bill  which  will 
render  pockets  a  superfluity  in  your  next  suit. 
Elegans  "  nascitur,  nonfit."  A  man  is  born  a  dandy, 
as  he  is  born  a  poet.  There  are  heads  that  can't 
wear  hats ;  there  are  necks  that  can't  fit  cravats  ; 
there  are  jaws  that  can't  fill  out  collars  —  (Willis 
touched  this  last  point  in  one  of  his  earlier  ambro- 
types,  if  I  remember  rightly)  ;  there  are  tournures 
nothing  can  humanise,  and  movements  nothing  can 
subdue  to  the  gracious  suavity  or  elegant  languor  or 
stately  serenity  which  belong  to  different  styles  of 
dandyism. 


226  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

We  are  forming  an  aristocracy,  as  you  may 
observe,  in  this  country, — not  a  gratid-Dei,  nor  a 
jure-divino  one,  —  but  a  de-facto  upper  stratum  of 
being,  which  floats  over  the  turbid  waves  of  common 
life  like  the  iridescent  film  you  may  have  seen  spread- 
ing over  the  water  about  our  wharves, — very  splendid, 
though  its  origin  may  have  been  tar,  tallow,  train-oil, 
or  other  such  unctuous  commodities.  I  say,  then,  we 
are  forming  an  aristocracy  ;  and,  transitory  as  its 
individual  life  often  is,  it  maintains  itself  tolerably,  as 
a  whole.  Of  course,  money  is  its  corner-stone.  But 
now  observe  this.  Money  kept  for  two  or  three 
generations  transforms  a  race, — I  don't  mean  merely 
in  manners  and  hereditary  culture,  but  in  blood  and 
bone.  Money  buys  air  and  sunshine,  in  which 
children  grow  up  more  kindly,  of  course,  than  in 
close,  back  streets  ;  it  buys  country-places  to  give 
them  happy  and  healthy  summers,  good  nursing, 
good  doctoring,  and  the  best  cuts  of  beef  and  mutton. 

When  the  spring  chickens  come  to  market 1 

beg  your  pardon, — that  is  not  what  I  was  going  to 
speak  of.  As  the  young  females  of  each  successive 
season  come  on,  the  finest  specimens  among  them, 
other  things  being  equal,  are  apt  to  attract  those  who 
can  afford  the  expensive  luxury  of  beauty.  The 
physical  character  of  the  next  generation  rises  in 
consequence.  It  is  plain  that  certain  families  have  in 
this  way  acquired  an  elevated  type  of  face  and  figure, 
and  that  in  a  small  circle  of  city  connexions  one  may 
sometimes  find  models  of  both  sexes  which  one  of 
the  rural  counties  would  find  it  hard  to  match  from 
all  its  townships  put  together.  Because  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  running  down,  of  degeneration  and 
waste  of  life,  among  the  richer  classes,  you  must  not 
overlook  the  equally  obvious  fact  I  have  just  spoken 
of, — which  in  one  or  two  generations  more  will  be,  I 
think,  much  more  patent  than  just  now. 

The  weak  point  in  our  chryso-aristocracy  is  the 
same  I  have  alluded  to  in  connexion  with  cheap 
dandyism.  Its  thorough  manhood,  its  high-caste 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  227 

gallantry,  are  not  so  manifest  as  the  plate-glass  of  its 
windows  and  the  more  or  less  legitimate  heraldry  of 
its  coach-panels.  It  is  very  curious  to  observe  of  how 
small  account  military  folks  are  held  among  our  Nor- 
thern people.  Our  young  men  must  gild  their  spurs, 
but  they  need  not  win  them.  The  equal  division  of 
property  keeps  the  younger  sons  of  rich  people  above 
the  necessity  of  military  service.  Thus  the  army 
loses  an  element  of  refinement,  and  the  moneyed 
upper  class  forgets  what  it  is  to  count  heroism  among 
its  virtues.  Still  I  don't  believe  in  any  aristocracy 
without  pluck  as  its  backbone.  Ours  may  show  it 
when  the  time  comes,  if  it  ever  does  come. 

These    United    States    furnish    the    greatest 

market  for  intellectual  green  fruit  of  all  the  places  in 
the  world.  I  think  so,  at  any  rate.  The  demand  for 
intellectual  labour  is  so  enormous  and  the  market  so 
far  from  nice,  that  young  talent  is  apt  to  fare  like  un- 
ripe gooseberries, — get  plucked  to  make  a  fool  of. 
Think  of  a  country  which  buys  eighty  thousand 
copies  of  the  "  Proverbial  Philosophy,"  while  the 
author's  admiring  countrymen  have  been  buying 
twelve  thousand  !  How  can  one  let  his  fruit  hang  in 
the  sun  until  it  gets  fully  ripe,  while  there  are  eighty 
thousand  such  hungry  mouths  ready  to  swallow  it  and 
proclaim  its  praises  ?  Consequently,  there  never  was 
such  a  recollection  of  crude  pippins  and  half-crown 
windfalls  as  our  native  literature  displays  among  its 
fruits.  There  are  literary  green-groceries  at  every 
corner,  which  will  buy  anything,  from  a  button-pear 
to  a  pine-apple.  It  takes  a  long  apprenticeship  to 
train  a  whole  people  to  reading  and  writing.  The 
temptation  of  money  and  frame  is  too  great  for  young 
people.  Do  I  not  remember  that  glorious  moment 

when  the  late  Mr we  won't  say  who, — editor  of 

the we  won't  say  what,  offered  me  the  sum  of  fifty 

cents  per  double-columned  quarto  page  for  shaking 
my  young  boughs  over  his  foolscap  apron?  Was  it 
not  an  intoxicating  vision  of  gold  and  glory?  I 
should  doubtless  have  revelled  in  its  wealth  and 


228  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

splendour,  but  for  learning  that  \hefifty  cents  was  to 
be  considered  a  rhetorical  embellishment,  and  by  no 
means  a  literal  expression  of  past  fact  or  present 
intention. 

Beware  of  making  your  moral  staple  consist 

of  the  negative  virtues.  It  is  good  to  abstain,  and 
teach  others  to  abstain,  from  all  that  is  sinful  or 
hurtful.  But  making  a  business  of  it  leads  to 
emaciation  of  character,  unless  one  feeds  largely  also 
on  the  more  nutritious  diet  of  active  sympathetic 
benevolence. 

I  don't  believe  one  word  of  what  you  are  say- 
ing,— spoke  up  the  angular  female  in  black  bomba- 
zine. 

I  am  sorry  you  disbelieve  it,  madam, — I  said,  and 
added  softly  to  my  next  neighbour, — but  you  prove 
it. 

The  young  fellow  sitting  near  me  winked  ;  and  the 
divinity  -  student  said,  in  an  undertone,  —  Optime 
dictum. 

Your  talking  Latin, — said  I, — reminds  me  of  an 
odd  trick  of  one  of  my  old  tutors.  He  read  so  much 
of  that  language,  that  his  English  half  turned  into  it. 
He  got  caught  in  town,  one  hot  summer,  in  pretty 
close  quarters,  and  wrote,  or  began  to  write,  a  series 
of  city  pastorals  —  Eclogues,  he  called  them  —  and 
meant  to  have  published  them  by  subscription.  I 
remember  some  of  his  verses,  if  you  want  to  hear 
them. — You,  sir  (addressing  myself  to  the  divinity- 
student),  and  all  such  as  have  been  through  college, 
or  what  is  the  same  thing,  received  an  honorary 
degree,  will  understand  them  without  a  dictionary. 
The  old  man  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about <(  aestiva- 
tion," as  he  called  it,  in  opposition,  as  one  might 
say,  to  hibernation.  Intramural  aestivation,  or  town- 
life  in  summer,  he  would  say,  is  a  peculiar  form  of 
suspended  existence,  or  semi-asphyxia.  One  wakes 
up  from  it  about  the  beginning  of  the  last  week 
in  September.  This  is  what  I  remember  of  his 
poem : — 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  229 

ESTIVATION 

An  Unpublished  Poem,  by  my  late  Latin  Tutor 

In  candent  ire  the  solar  splendour  flames  ; 
The  foles,  languescent,  pend  from  arid  rames  ; 
His  humid  front  the  cive,  anheling,  wipes, 
And  dreams  of  erring  on  ventiferous  ripes. 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 
Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 
Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent  vine, 
And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine  ! 

To  me,  alas  !  no  verdurous  visions  come, 
Save  yon  exiguous  pool's  conferva-scum, — 
No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue  ! 

Me  wretched  !     Let  me  curr  to  quercine  shades  ! 
Effund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids  ! 
O,  might  I  vole  to  some  umbrageous  clump, — 
Depart,  — be  off, — excede, — evade, — erump  ! 

I    have  lived    by    the  sea-shore    and    by   the 

mountains.  No, — I  am  not  going  to  say  which  is 
best.  The  one  where  your  place  is,  is  the  best  for 
you.  But  this  difference  there  is  :  you  can  domesti- 
cate mountains,  but  the  sea  is  ferce  naturae.  You  may 
have  a  hut,  or  know  the  owner  of  one,  on  the  moun- 
tain-side ;  you  see  a  light  half-way  up  its  ascent  in  the 
evening,  and  you  know  there  is  a  home,  and  you 
might  share  it.  You  have  noted  certain  trees,  per- 
haps :  you  know  the  particular  zone  where  the  hem- 
locks looked  so  black  in  October,  when  the  maples  and 
beeches  have  faded.  All  its  reliefs  and  intaglios  have 
electrotyped  themselves  in  the  medallions  that  hang 
round  the  walls  of  your  memory's  chamber. — The  sea 
remembers  nothing.  It  is  feline.  It  licks  your  feet, 


230  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

— its  huge  flanks  purr  very  pleasantly  for  you  ;  but  it 
will  crack  your  bones  and  eat  you,  for  all  that,  and 
wipe  the  crimsoned  foam  from  its  jaws  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  The  mountains  give  their  lost  chil- 
dren berries  and  water  ;  the  sea  mocks  their  thirst 
and  lets  them  die.  The  mountains  have  a  grand, 
stupid,  loveable  tranquillity  ;  the  sea  has  a  fascinating, 
treacherous  intelligence.  The  mountains  lie  about 
like  huge  ruminants,  their  broad  backs  awful  to  look 
upon,  but  safe  to  handle.  The  sea  smooths  its  silver 
scales,  until  you  cannot  see  their  joints, — but  their 
shining  is  that  of  a  snake's  belly,  after  all. — In  deeper 
suggestiveness  I  find  as  great  a  difference.  The 
mountains  dwarf  mankind  and  foreshorten  the  pro- 
cession of  its  long  generations.  The  sea  drowns  out 
humanity  and  time  ;  it  has  no  sympathy  with  either  ; 
for  it  belongs  to  eternity,  and  of  that  it  sings  its 
monotonous  song  for  ever  and  ever. 

Yet  I  should  love  to  have  a  little  box  by  the  sea- 
shore. I  should  love  to  gaze  out  on  the  wild  feline 
element  from  a  front  window  of  my  own,  just  as  I 
should  love  to  look  on  a  caged  panther,  and  see  it 
stretch  its  shining  length,  and  then  curl  over  and  lap 
its  smooth  sides,  and  by-and-by  begin  to  lash  itself 
into  rage  and  show  its  white  teeth,  and  spring  at  its 
bars,  and  howl  the  cry  of  its  mad,  but,  to  me,  harm- 
less fury. — And  then, — to  look  at  it  with  that  inward 
eye, — who  does  not  love  to  shuffle  off  time  and  its 
concerns,  at  intervals, — to  forget  who  is  President  and 
who  is  Governor,  what  race  he  belongs  to,  what  lan- 
guage he  speaks,  which  golden-headed  nail  of  the 
firmament  his  particular  planetary  system  is  hung 
upon,  and  listen  to  the  great  liquid  metronome  as  it 
beats  its  solemn  measure,  steadily  swinging  when  the 
solo  or  duet  of  human  life  began,  and  to  swing  just  as 
steadily  after  the  human  chorus  has  died  out  and  man 
is  a  fossil  on  its  shores  ? 

What  should  decide  one  in  choosing  a  summer 

residence  ? — Constitution,  first  of  all.  How  much  snow 
could  you  melt  in  an  hour,  if  you  were  planted  in  a 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  231 

hogshead  of  it?  Comfort  is  essential  to  enjoyment. 
All  sensitive  people  should  remember,  that  persons  in 
easy  circumstances  suffer  much  more  from  cold  in 
summer — that  is,  the  warm  half  of  the  year — than  in 
winter,  or  the  other  half.  You  must  cut  your  climate 
to  your  constitution,  as  much  as  your  clothing  to  your 
shape.  After  this,  consult  your  taste  and  convenience. 
But  if  you  would  be  happy  in  Berkshire,  you  must 
carry  mountains  in  your  brain  ;  and  if  you  would  enjoy 
Nahant  you  must  have  an  ocean  in  your  soul.  Nature 
plays  at  dominoes  with  you  ;  you  must  match  her  piece, 
or  she  will  never  give  it  up  to  you. 

The  schoolmistress  said,  in  a  rather  mischievous 

way,  that  she  was  afraid  some  minds  or  souls  would  be 
a  little  crowded,  if  they  took  in  the  Rocky  Mountains 
or  the  Atlantic. 

Have  you  ever  read  the  little  book  called  "  The  Stars 
and  the  Earth"? — said  I. — Have  you  seen  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence  photographed  in  a  surface  that  a 
fly's  foot  would  cover?  The  forms  or  conditions  of 
Time  and  Space,  as  Kant  will  tell  you,  are  nothing  in 
themselves, — only  our  way  of  looking  at  things.  You 
are  right,  I  think,  however,  in  recognising  the  category 
of  Space  as  being  quite  as  applicable  to  minds  as  to  the 
outer  world.  Every  man  of  reflection  is  vaguely  con- 
scious of  an  imperfectly-defined  circle  which  is  drawn 
about  his  intellect.  He  has  a  perfectly  clear  sense  that 
the  fragments  of  his  intellectual  circle  include  the 
curves  of  many  other  minds  of  which  he  is  cognizant. 
He  often  recognises  these  as  manifestly  concentric  with 
his  own,  but  of  less  radius.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
we  find  a  portion  of  an  arc  on  the  outside  of  our  own, 
we  say  it  intersects  ours,  but  are  very  slow  to  confess 
or  to  see  that  it  circumscribes  it.  Every  now  and  then 
a  man's  mind  is  stretched  by  a  new  idea  or  sensation, 
and  never  shrinks  back  to  its  former  dimensions. 
After  looking  at  the  Alps,  I  felt  that  my  mind  had 
been  stretched  beyond  the  limits  of  its  elasticity,  and 
fitted  so  loosely  on  my  old  ideas  of  space  that  I  had  to 
spread  these  to  fit  it. 


232  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

If  I  thought  I  should  ever  see  the  Alps  ! — said 

the  schoolmistress. 

Perhaps  you  will,  some  time  or  other, — I  said. 

It  is  not  very  likely, — she  answered. — I  have  had 
one  or  two  opportunities,  but  1  had  rather  be  anything 
than  governess  in  a  rich  family. 

[Proud,  too,  you  little  soft-voiced  woman  !  Well, 
I  can't  say  I  like  you  any  the  worse  for  it.  How 
long  will  school-keeping  take  to  kill  you  ?  Is  it 
possible  the  poor  thing  works  with  her  needle, 
too?  I  don't  like  those  marks  on  the  side  of  her 
forefinger. 

Tableau.  Chamouni.  Mont  Blanc  in  full  view. 
Figures  in  the  foreground  ;  two  of  them  standing 

apart ;  one  of  them  a  gentleman  of oh, — ah, — yes  ! 

the  other  a  lady  in  a  white  cashmere,  leaning  on  his 
shoulder. — The  ingenuous  reader  will  understand  that 
this  was  an  internal,  private,  personal,  subjective 
diorama,  seen  for  one  instant  on  the  background  of  my 
own  consciousness,  and  abolished  into  black  nonentity 
by  the  first  question  which  recalled  me  to  actual  life, 
as  suddenly  as  if  one  of  those  iron  shop-blinds  (which 
I  always  pass  at  dusk  with  a  shiver,  expecting  to  stumble 
over  some  poor  but  honest  shop-boy's  head,  just  taken 
off  by  its  sudden  and  unexpected  descent,  and  left  out- 
side upon  the  side-walk)  had  come  down  in  front  of  it 
"  by  the  run."] 

Should  you  like  to  hear  what  moderate  wishes 

life  brings  one  to  at  last  ?  I  used  to  be  very  ambitious, 
— wasteful,  extravagant,  and  luxurious  in  all  my 
fancies.  Read  too  much  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights." 
Must  have  the  lamp, — couldn't  do  without  the  ring. 
Exercise  every  morning  on  the  brazen  horse.  Plump 
down  into  castles  as  full  of  little  milk-white  princesses 
as  a  nest  is  of  young  sparrows.  All  love  me  dearly  at 
once. — Charming  idea  of  life,  but  too  high-coloured  for 
the  reality.  I  have  outgrown  all  this  ;  my  tastes  have 
become  exceedingly  primitive,  —  almost,  perhaps, 
ascetic.  We  carry  happiness  into  our  condition,  but 
must  not  hope  to  find  it  there.  I  think  you  will  be 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  233 

willing  to  hear  some  lines  which  embody  the  subdued 
and  limited  desires  of  my  maturity. 

CONTENTMENT 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

Little  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few  ; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do), 
That  I  may  call  my  own  ; — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun.. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me  ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten  ; — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen  ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice  ; — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ; — 

Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there, — 
Some  good  bank-stock, — some  note  of  hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share  ; — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honours  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names  ; — 
I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo, — 
But  only  near  St  James  ; 
I'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  the  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  bawbles  ;  'tis  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ; — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin, — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings, — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me  ; — I  laugh  at  show. 


234  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

My  dame  shall  dress  in  cheap  attire 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear) ; — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere, — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  ; 
An  easy  gait, — two,  forty-five — 

Suits  me  ;  I  do  not  care  ; — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four, — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, — 
(A  landscape, — foreground  golden  dirt, — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few, — some  fifty  score 

For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear  ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor  ; — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam, 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems, — such  things  as  these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
/  value  for  their  power  to  please, 
And  selfish  churls  deride  ; 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ; — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share, — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  235 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch, 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much, — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 


MY    LAST   WALK    WITH    THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS 

(A  Parenthesis) 

I  can't  say  just  how  many  walks  she  and  I  had 
taken  together  before  this  one.  I  found  the  effect  of 
going  out  every  morning  was  decidedly  favourable  on 
her  health.  Two  pleasing  dimples,  the  places  for  which 
were  just  marked  when  she  came,  played  shadowy,  in 
her  freshening  cheeks  when  she  smiled  and  nodded 
good-morning  to  me  from  the  school-house  steps. 

I  am  afraid  I  did  the  greater  part  of  the  talking. 
At  any  rate,  if  I  should  try  to  report  all  that  I  said 
during  the  first  half-dozen  walks  we  took  together, 
I  fear  that  I  might  receive  a  gentle  hint  from  my 
friends  the  publishers,  that  a  separate  volume,  at  my 
own  risk  and  expense,  would  be  the  proper  method 
of  bringing  them  before  the  public. 

I  would  have  a  woman  as  true  as  Death.  At 

the  first  real  lie  which  works  from  the  heart  outward, 
she  should  be  tenderly  chloroformed  into  a  better 
world,  where  she  can  have  an  angel  for  a  governess, 
and  feed  on  strange  fruits  which  will  make  her  all 
over  again,  even  to  her  bones  and  marrow. — Whether 
gifted  with  the  accident  of  beauty  or  not,  she  should 
have  been  moulded  in  the  rose-red  clay  of  Love, 
before  the  breath  of  life  made  a  moving  mortal  of 
her.  Love-capacity  is  a  congenital  endowment ;  and 
I  think,  after  awhile,  one  gets  to  know  the  warm- 
hued  natures  it  belongs  to  from  the  pretty  pipe-clay 
counterfeits  of  them. — Proud  she  may  be,  in  the 
sense  of  respecting  herself ;  but  pride  in  the  sense  of 
contemning  others  less  gifted  than  herself  deserves 


236  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

the  two  lowest  circles  of  a  vulgar  woman's  Inferno, 
where  the  punishments  are  Small-pox  and  Bank- 
ruptcy. She  who  nips  off  the  end  of  a  brittle 
courtesy,  as  one  breaks  the  tip  of  an  icicle,  to  bestow 
upon  those  whom  she  ought  cordially  and  kindly  to 
recognise,  proclaims  the  fact  that  she  comes  not 
merely  of  low  blood,  but  of  bad  blood.  Conscious- 
ness of  unquestioned  position  makes  people  gracious 
in  proper  measure  to  all  ;  but  if  a  woman  puts  on 
airs  with  her  real  equals,  she  has  something  about 
herself  or  her  family  she  is  ashamed  of,  or  ought  to 
be.  Middle,  and  more  than  middle-aged  people,  who 
know  family  histories,  generally  see  through  it.  An 
official  of  standing  was  rude  to  me  once.  Oh,  that 
is  the  maternal  grandfather, — said  a  wise  old  friend  to 
me, — he  was  a  boor. — Better  too  few  words,  from  the 
woman  we  love,  than  too  many :  while  she  is  silent, 
Nature  is  working  for  her  ;  while  she  talks,  she  is 
working  for  herself. — Love  is  sparingly  soluble  in  the 
words  of  men  ;  therefore  they  speak  much  of  it ;  but 
one  syllable  of  woman's  speech  can  dissolve  more  of  it 
than  a  man's  heart  can  hold. 

Whether  I  said  any  or  all  of  these  things  to 

the  schoolmistress,  or  not, — whether  I  stole  them  out 
of  Lord  Bacon, —whether  I  cribbed  them  from  Balzac, 
— whether  I  dipped  them  from  the  ocean  of  Tupperian 
wisdom, — or  whether  I  have  just  found  them  in  my 
head,  laid  there  by  that  solemn  fowl,  Experience  (who, 
according  to  my  observation,  cackles  oftener  than  she 
drops  real  live  eggs),  I  cannot  say.  Wise  men  have 
said  more  foolish  things, — and  foolish  men,  1  don't 
doubt,  have  said  as  wise  things.  Anyhow,  the  school- 
mistress and  I  had  pleasant  walks  and  long  talks,  all 
of  which  I  do  not  feel  bound  to  report. 

You  are  a  stranger  to  me,  ma'am. — I  don't 

doubt  you  would  like  to  know  all  J  said  to  the  school- 
mistress.— I  shan't  do  it ; — I  had  rather  get  the 
publishers  to  return  the  money  you  have  invested  in 
this.  Besides,  I  have  forgotten  a  good  deal  of  it.  I 
shall  tell  only  what  I  like  of  what  I  remember. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  237 

My  idea  was,  in  the  first  place,  to  search  out 

the  picturesque  spots  which  the  city  affords  a  sight 
of  to  those  who  have  eyes.  I  know  a  good  many, 
and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  inem  in  company  with 
my  young  friend.  There  were  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
in  the  Franklin  Place  front-yards  or  borders  ;  Com- 
merce is  just  putting  his  granite  foot  upon  them. 
Then  there  are  certain  small  seraglio-gardens,  into 
which  one  can  get  a  peep  through  the  crevices  of 
high  fences,  one  in  Myrtle  Street,  or  backing  on  it, — 
here  and  there  one  at  the  North  and  South  Ends. 
Then  the  great  elms  in  Essex  Street.  Then  the 
stately  horse-chestnuts  in  that  vacant  lot  in  Chambers 
Street,  which  hold  their  outspread  hands  over  your 
head  (as  I  said  in  my  poem  the  other  day),  and  look 
as  if  they  were  whispering,  "  May  grace,  mercy,  and 
peace  be  with  you  ! '' — and  the  rest  of  that  benediction. 
Nay,  there  are  certain  patches  of  ground,  which, 
having  lain  neglected  for  a  time,  Nature,  who  always 
has  her  pockets  full  of  seeds,  and  holes  in  all  her 
pockets,  has  covered  with  hungry  plebeian  growths, 
which  fight  for  life  with  each  other,  until  some  of 
them  get  broad-leaved  and  succulent,  and  you  have  a 
coarse  vegetable  tapestry  which  Raphael  would  not 
have  disdained  to  spread  over  the  foreground  of  his 
masterpiece.  The  Professor  pretends  that  he  found 
such  a  one  in  Charles  Street,  which,  in  its  dare-devil 
impudence  of  rough-and-tumble  vegetation,  beat  the 
pretty-behaved  flower-beds  of  the  Public  Garden  as 
ignominiously  as  a  group  of  young  tatter-demalions 
playing  pitch-and-toss  beats  a  row  of  Sunday-school 
boys  with  their  teacher  at  their  head. 

But  then  the  Professor  has  one  of  his  burrows  in 
that  region,  and  puts  everything  in  high  colours  relat- 
ing to  it.  That  is  his  way  about  everything. 1 

hold  any  man  cheap, — he  said, — of  whom  nothing 
stronger  can  be  uttered  than  that  all  his  geese  are 
swans.  How  is  that,  Professor  ? — said  I, — I  should 

have  set  you  down  for  one  of  that  sort. Sir, — said 

he, — I  am  proud  to  say,  that  Nature  has  so  far  en- 


238  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

riched  me,  that  I  cannot  own  so  much  as  a  duck 
without  seeing  in  it  as  pretty  a  swan  as  ever  swam 
the  basin  in  the  garden  of  the  Luxembourg.  And 
the  Professor  showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes  devoutly, 
like  one  returning  thanks  after  a  dinner  of  many 
courses. 

I  don't  know  anything  sweeter  than  this  leaking  in 
of  Nature  through  all  the  cracks  in  the  walls  and 
floors  of  cities.  You  heap  up  a  million  tons  of  hewn 
rocks  on  a  square  mile  or  two  of  earth  which  was 
green  once.  The  trees  look  down  from  the  hillsides 
and  ask  each  other,  as  they  stand  on  tiptoe, — "  What 
are  these  people  about  ? "  And  the  small  herbs  at 
their  feet  look  up  and  whisper  back, — "  We  will  go 
and  see."  So  the  small  herbs  pack  themselves  up  in 
the  least  possible  bundles,  and  wait  until  the  wind 
steals  to  them  at  night  and  whispers, — "  Come  with 
me."  Then  they  go  softly  with  it  into  the  great 
city, — one  to  a  cleft  in  the  pavement,  one  to  a  spout 
on  the  reef,  one  to  a  seam  in  the  marbles  over  a  rich 
gentleman's  bones,  and  one  to  the  grave  without  a 
stone  where  nothing  but  a  man  is  buried, — and  there 
they  grow,  looking  down  on  the  generations  of  men 
from  mouldy  roofs,  looking  up  from  between  the  less- 
trodden  pavements,  looking  out  through  iron  cemetery- 
railings.  Listen  to  them,  when  there  is  only  a  light 
breath  stirring,  and  you  will  hear  them  saying  to  each 
other, — "  Wait  awhile  !  "  The  words  run  along  the 
telegraph  of  those  narrow  green  lines  that  border  the 
roads  leading  from  the  city,  until  they  reach  the  slope 
of  the  hills,  and  the  trees  repeat  in  low  murmurs  to 
each  other, — "  Wait  awhile  ! "  By-and-by  the  flow  of 
life  in  the  streets  ebbs,  and  the  old  leafy  inhabitants 
— the  smaller  tribes  always  in  front — saunter  in,  one 
by  one,  very  careless  seemingly,  but  very  tenacious, 
until  they  swarm  so  that  the  great  stones  gape  from 
each  other  with  the  crowding  of  their  roots,  and  the 
feldspar  begins  to  be  picked  out  of  the  granite  to  find 
them  food.  At  last  the  trees  take  up  their  solemn 
line  of  march,  and  never  rest  until  they  have  encamped 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  239 

in  the  market-place.  Wait  long  enough  and  you  will 
find  an  old  doting  oak  hugging  a  huge  worn  block  in 
its  yellow  underground  arms  ;  that  was  the  corner- 
stone of  the  State-House.  O,  so  patient  she  is,  this 
imperturbable  Nature  ! 

Let  us  cry  ! 

But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  walks  and 
talks  with  the  schoolmistress.  I  did  not  say  that  I 
would  not  tell  you  something  about  them.  Let  me 
alone,  and  I  shall  talk  to  you  more  than  I  ought  to, 
probably.  We  never  tell  our  secrets  to  people  that 
pump  for  them. 

Books  we  talked  about,  and  education.  It  was  her 
duty  to  know  something  of  these,  and  of  course  she 
did.  Perhaps  I  was  somewhat  more  learned  than  she, 
but  I  found  that  the  difference  between  her  reading 
and  mine  was  like  that  of  a  man's  and  a  woman's 
dusting  a  library.  The  man  flaps  about  with  a  bunch 
of  feathers  ;  the  woman  goes  to  work  softly  with  a 
cloth.  She  does  not  raise  half  the  dust,  nor  fill  her 
own  mouth  and  eyes  with  it, — but  she  goes  into  all  the 
corners,  and  attends  to  the  leaves  as  much  as  the 
covers. — Books  are  the  negative  pictures  of  thought, 
and  the  more  sensitive  the  mind  that  receives  their 
images,  the  more  nicely  the  finest  lines  are  reproduced. 
A  woman  (of  the  right  kind),  reading  after  a  man, 
follows  him  as  Ruth  followed  the  reapers  of  Boaz,  and 
her  gleanings  are  often  the  finest  of  the  wheat. 

But  it  was  in  talking  of  Life  that  we  came  most 
nearly  together.  I  thought  I  knew  something  about 
that, — that  I  could  speak  or  write  about  it  somewhat 
to  the  purpose. 

To  take  up  this  fluid  earthly  being  of  ours  as  a 
sponge  sucks  up  water, — to  be  steeped  and  soaked 
in  its  realities  as  a  hide  fills  its  pores  lying  seven 
years  in  a  tan-pit, — to  have  winnowed  every  wave  of 
it  as  a  mill-wheel  works  up  the  stream  that  runs 
through  the  flume  upon  its  float-boards, — to  have 
curled  up  in  the  keenest  spasms  and  flattened  out 
in  the  laxest  languors  of  this  breathing  sickness, 


240  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

which  keeps  certain  parcels  of  matter  uneasy  for 
three  or  four  score  years, — to  have  fought  all  the 
devils  and  clasped  all  the  angels  of  its  delirium, — and 
then,  just  at  the  point  when  the  white-hot  passions 
have  cooled  down  to  cherry-red,  plunge  our  experience 
into  the  ice-cold  stream  of  some  language  or  other, 
one  might  think  would  end  in  a  rhapsody  with  some- 
thing of  spring  and  temper  in  it.  All  this  I  thought 
my  power  and  province. 

The  schoolmistress  had  tried  life  too.  Once  in  a 
while  one  meets  with  a  single  soul  greater  than  all 
the  living  pageant  which  passes  before  it.  As  the 
pale  astronomer  sits  in  his  study  with  sunken  eyes 
and  thin  fingers,  and  weighs  Uranus  or  Neptune  as 
in  a  balance,  so  there  are  meek,  slight  women  who 
have  weighed  all  which  this  planetary  life  can  offer, 
and  hold  it  like  a  bauble  in  the  palm  of  their  slender 
hands.  This  was  one  of  them.  Fortune  had  left  her, 
sorrow  had  baptized  her ;  the  routine  of  labour  and 
the  loneliness  of  almost  friendless  city  life  were 
before  her.  Yet,  as  I  looked  upon  her  tranquil  face, 
gradually  regaining  a  cheerfulness  which  was  often 
sprightly,  as  she  became  interested  in  the  various 
matters  we  talked  about  and  places  we  visited,  I  saw 
that  eye  and  lip  and  every  shifting  lineament  were 
made  for  love, — unconscious  of  their  sweet  office  as 
yet,  and  meeting  the  cold  aspect  of  Duty  with  the 
natural  graces  which  were  meant  for  the  reward  of 
nothing  less  than  the  Great  Passion. 

I  never  addressed  one  word  of  love  to  the 

schoolmistress  in  the  course  of  these  pleasant  walks. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  we  talked  of  everything  but  love 
on  that  particular  morning.  There  was,  perhaps,  a 
little  more  timidity  and  hesitancy  on  my  part  than  I 
have  commonly  shown  among  our  people  at  the 
boarding-house.  In  fact,  I  considered  myself  the 
master  at  the  breakfast-table ;  but,  somehow,  I  could 
not  command  myself  just  then  so  well  as  usual.  The 
truth  is,  I  had  secured  a  passage  to  Liverpool  in  the 
steamer  which  was  to  leave  at  noon, — with  the  con- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  241 

dition,  however,  of  being  released  in  case  circumstances 
occurred  to  detain  me.  The  schoolmistress  knew 
nothing  about  all  this,  of  course,  as  yet. 

It  was  on  the  Common  that  we  were  walking.  The 
matt  or  boulevard  of  our  Common,  you  know,  has 
various  branches  leading  from  it  in  different  directions. 
One  of  these  runs  down  from  opposite  Joy  Street 
southward  across  the  whole  length  of  the  Common  to 
Boylston  Street.  We  called  it  the  long  path,  and 
were  fond  of  it. 

I  felt  very  weak  indeed  (though  of  a  tolerably 
robust  habit)  as  we  came  opposite  the  head  of  this 
path  on  that  morning.  I  think  I  tried  to  speak  twice 
without  making  myself  distinctly  audible.  At  last  I 

got  out  the  question Will  you  take  the  long  path 

with  me? Certainly, — said  the  schoolmistress, — 

with  much  pleasure. Think, — I  said, — before  you 

answer ;  if  you  take  the  long  path  with  me  now,  I 

shall  interpret  it  that  we  are  to  part  no  more  ! 

The  schoolmistress  stepped  back  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment, as  if  an  arrow  had  struck  her. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks  used  as  seats  was 
hard  by, — the  one  you  may  still  see  close  by  the 

Gingko-tree. Pray,  sit  down, — I  said. No,  no, 

— she  answered  softly, — I  will  walk  the  long  path  with 
you  ! 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  met  us 

walking,  arm  in  arm,  about  the  middle  of  the  long 
path,  and  said,  very  charmingly, — ' '  Good  morning, 
my  dears ! " 


XJI 

[I  DID  not  think  it  probable  that  I  should  have  a  great 
many  more  talks  with  our  company,  and  therefore  I 
was  anxious  to  get  as  much  as  I  could  into  every 
conversation.  That  is  the  reason  why  you  will  find 
some  odd,  miscellaneous  facts  here,  which  I  wished  to 
tell  at  least  once,  as  I  should  not  have  a  chance  to  tell 
them  habitually,  at  our  breakfast-table. — We're  very 
free  and  easy,  you  know  ;  we  don't  read  what  we  don  t 
like.  Our  parish  is  so  large,  one  can't  pretend  to 
preach  to  all  the  pews  at  once.  One  can't  be  all  the 
time  trying  to  do  the  best  of  one's  best ;  if  a  company 
works  a  steam  fire-engine,  the  firemen  needn't  be 
straining  themselves  all  day  to  squirt  over  the  top  of 
the  flag-staff.  Let  them  wash  some  of  those  lower 
storey  windows  a  little.  Besides,  there  is  no  use  in 
our  quarrelling  now,  as  you  will  find  out  when  you  get 
through  this  paper.] 

Travel,  according  to  my  experience,  does  not 

exactly  correspond  to  the  idea  one  gets  of  it  out  of 
most  books  of  travels.  I  am  thinking  of  travel  as  it 
was  when  I  made  the  Grand  Tour,  especially  in  Italy. 
Memory  is  a  net ;  one  finds  it  full  of  fish  when  he 
takes  it  from  the  brook  ;  but  a  dozen  miles  of  water 
have  run  through  it  without  sticking.  I  can  prove 
some  facts  about  travelling  by  a  story  or  two.  There 
are  certain  principles  to  be  assumed — such  as  these  : — 
He  who  is  carried  by  horses  must  deal  with  rogues. 
To-day's  dinner  subtends  a  larger  visual  angle  than 
yesterday's  revolution.  A  mote  in  my  eye  is  bigger 
to  me  than  the  biggest  of  Dr  Gould's  private  planets. 
Every  traveller  is  a  self-taught  entomologist. — Old 
jokes  are  dynamometers  of  mental  tension ;  an  old 

242 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  243 

joke  tells  better  among  friends  travelling  than  at  home 
— which  shows  that  their  minds  are  in  a  state  of  dimin- 
ished rather  than  increased  vitality.  There  was  a 
story  about  "  strahps  to  your  pahnts,"  which  was  vastly 
funny  to  us  fellows — on  the  road  from  Milan  to  Venice. 
— Caelum  non  animum, — travellers  change  their  guineas, 
but  not  their  characters.  The  bore  is  the  same,  eating 
dates  under  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  as  over  a  plate  of 
baked  beans  in  Beacon  Street. — Parties  of  travellers 
have  a  morbid  instinct  for  " establishing  raws''  upon 
each  other. — A  man  shall  sit  down  with  his  friend  at 
the  foot  of  the  Great  Pyramid,  and  they  will  take  up 
the  question  they  had  been  talking  about  under  ' '  the 
great  elm,"  and  forget  all  about  Egypt.  When  I  was 
crossing  the  Po  we  were  all  fighting  about  the  propriety 
of  one  fellow's  telling  another  that  his  argument  was 
absurd  ;  one  maintaining  it  to  be  a  perfectly  admissible 
logical  term,  as  proved  by  the  phrase  ' '  reductio  ad 
absurdum  "  ;  the  rest  badgering  him  as  a  conversational 
bully.  Mighty  little  we  troubled  ourselves  for  Padus, 
the  Po,  "a  river  broader  and  more  rapid  than  the 
Rhone,"  and  the  times  when  Hannibal  led  his  grim 
Africans  to  its  banks,  and  his  elephants  thrust  their 
trunks  into  the  yellow  waters  over  which  that  pendu- 
lum ferry-boat  was  swinging  back  and  forward  every 
ten  minutes  ! 

Here  are  some  of  those  reminiscences,  with 

morals  prefixed,  or  annexed,  or  implied. 

Lively  emotions  very  commonly  do  not  strike  us  full 
in  front,  but  obliquely  from  the  side  ;  a  scene  or  incident 
in  undress  often  affects  us  more  than  one  in  full  costume, 

"  Is  this  the  mighty  ocean  ? — is  this  all?" 

says  the  Princess  in  Gebir.  The  rush  that  should  have 
flooded  my  soul  in  the  Coliseum  did  not  come.  But 
walking  one  day  in  the  fields  about  the  city,  I  stumbled 
over  a  fragment  of  broken  masonry,  and  lo  !  the 
World's  Mistress  in  her  stone  girdle — alia  mcenia  Romce 
— rose  before  me  and  whitened  my  cheek  with  her 
pale  shadow  as  never  before  or  since. 


244  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

I  used  very  often,  when  coming  home  from  my 
morning's  work  at  one  of  the  public  institutions  of 
Paris,  to  step  in  at  the  dear  old  church  of  St  Etienne 
du  Mont.  The  tomb  of  St  Genevieve,  surrounded  by 
burning  candles  and  votive  tablets,  was  there ;  the 
mural  tablet  of  Jacobus  Benignus  Winslow  was  there  ; 
there  was  a  noble  organ  with  carved  figures  ;  the  pulpit 
was  borne  on  the  oaken  shoulders  of  a  stooping  Samson  ; 
and  there  was  a  marvellous  staircase  like  a  coil  of  lace. 
These  things  I  mention  from  memory,  but  not  all  of 
them  together  impressed  me  so  much  as  an  inscription 
on  a  small  slab  of  marble  fixed  in  one  of  the  walls. 
It  told  how  this  church  of  St  Stephen  was  repaired 
and  beautified  in  the  year  16**,  and  how,  during  the 
celebration  of  its  reopening,  two  girls  of  the  parish 
(filles  de  la  paroisse)  fell  from  the  gallery,  carrying  a 
part  of  the  balustrade  with  them,  to  the  pavement, 
but  by  a  miracle  escaped  uninjured.  Two  young  girls, 
nameless,  but  real  presences  to  my  imagination,  as 
much  as  when  they  came  fluttering  down  on  the  tiles 
with  a  cry  that  outscreamed  the  sharpest  treble  in  the 
Te  Deum.  (Look  at  Carlyle's  article  on  Boswell,  and 
see  how  he  speaks  of  the  poor  young  woman  Johnson 
talked  with  in  the  streets  one  evening.)  All  the  crowd 
gone  but  these  two  "  filles  de  la  paroisse," — gone  as 
utterly  as  the  dresses  they  wore,  as  the  shoes  that  were 
on  their  feet,  as  the  bread  and  meat  that  were  in  the 
market  on  that  day. 

Not  the  great  historical  events,  but  the  personal 
incidents  that  call  up  single  sharp  pictures  of  some 
human  being  in  its  pang  or  struggle,  reach  us  most 
nearly.  I  remember  the  platform  at  Berne,  over  the 
parapet  of  which  Theobald  Weinzapfli's  restive  horse 
sprung  with  him  and  landed  him  more  than  a  hundred 
feet  beneath  in  the  lower  town,  not  dead,  but  sorely 
broken,  and  no  longer  a  wild  youth,  but  God's  servant 
from  that  day  forward.  I  have  forgotten  the  famous 
bears,  and  all  else. — I  remember  the  Percy  lion  on  the 
bridge  over  the  little  river  at  Alnwick, — the  leaden 
lion  with  his  tail  stretched  out  straight  like  a  pump- 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  245 

handle, — and  why  ?  Because  of  the  story  of  the  village 
boy  who  must  fain  bestride  the  leaden  tail,  standing 
out  over  the  water, — which  breaking,  he  dropped  into 
the  stream  far  below,  and  was  taken  out  an  idiot  for 
the  rest  of  his  life. 

Arrow-heads  must  be  brought  to  a  sharp  point,  and 
the  guillotine-axe  must  have  a  slanting  edge.  Some- 
thing intensely  human,  narrow,  and  definite  pierces  to 
the  seat  of  our  sensibilities  more  readily  than  huge 
occurrences  and  catastrophes.  A  nail  will  pick  a  lock 
that  defies  hatchet  and  hammer.  "  The  Royal  George  " 
went  down  with  all  her  crew,  and  Cowper  wrote  an 
exquisitely  simple  poem  about  it ;  but  the  leaf  which 
holds  it  is  smooth,  while  that  which  bears  the  lines  on 
his  mother's  portrait  is  blistered  with  tears. 

My  telling  these  recollections  sets  me  thinking  of 
others  of  the  same  kind  which  strike  the  imagination, 
especially  when  one  is  still  young.  You  remember 
the  monument  in  Devizes  market  to  the  woman  struck 
dead  with  a  lie  in  her  mouth.  I  never  saw  that,  but 
it  is  in  the  books.  Here  is  one  I  never  heard  men- 
tioned ; — if  any  of  the  "  Note  and  Query "  tribe  can 
tell  the  story,  I  hope  they  will.  Where  is  this  monu- 
ment ?  I  was  riding  on  an  English  stage-coach  when 
we  passed  a  handsome  marble  column  (as  I  remember 
it)  of  considerable  size  and  pretensions. — What  is 
that? — I  said. — That, — answered  the  coachman, — is 
the  hangman's  pillar.  Then  he  told  me  how  a  man 
went  out  one  night,  many  years  ago,  to  steal  sheep. 
He  caught  one,  tied  its  legs  together,  passed  the  rope 
over  his  head,  and  started  for  home.  In  climbing  a 
fence,  the  rope  slipped,  caught  him  by  the  neck,  and 
strangled  him.  Next  morning  he  was  found  hanging 
dead  on  one  side  of  the  fence  and  the  sheep  on  the 
other  ;  in  memory  whereof  the  lord  of  the  manor 
caused  this  monument  to  be  erected  as  a  warning  to 
all  who  love  mutton  better  than  virtue.  I  will  send 
a  copy  of  this  record  to  him  or  her  who  shall  first 
set  me  right  about  this  column  and  its  locality. 

And  telling  over  these  old  stories  reminds  me  that 


246  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

I  have  something  which  may  interest  architects  and 
perhaps  some  other  persons.  I  once  ascended  the 
spire  of  Strasburg  Cathedral,  which  is  the  highest, 
I  think,  in  Europe.  It  is  a  shaft  of  stone  filigree- 
work,  frightfully  open,  so  that  the  guide  puts  his  arms 
behind  you  to  keep  you  from  falling.  To  climb  it 
is  a  noonday  nightmare,  and  to  think  of  having 
climbed  it  crisps  all  the  fifty-six  joints  of  one's  twenty 
digits.  While  I  was  on  it,  "  pinnacled  dim  in  the 
intense  inane,"  a  strong  wind  was  blowing,  and  I  felt 
sure  that  the  spire  was  rocking.  It  swayed  back  and 
forward  like  a  stalk  of  rye  or  a  cat-o'-nine-tails  (bulrush) 
with  a  bobolink  on  it.  I  mentioned  it  to  the  guide, 
and  he  said  that  the  spire  did  really  swing  back  and 
forward, — I  think  he  said  some  feet. 

Keep  any  line  of  knowledge  ten  years  and  some 
other  line  will  intersect  it.  Long  afterwards  I  was 
hunting  out  a  paper  of  Dumeril's  in  an  old  journal, — 
the  "  Magazin  Encyclopedique "  for  fan  troisieme, 
(1795),  when  I  stumbled  upon  a  brief  article  on  the 
vibrations  of  the  spire  of  Strasburg  Cathedral.  A 
man  can  shake  it  so  that  the  movement  shall  be  shown 
in  a  vessel  of  water  nearly  seventy  feet  below  the 
summit,  and  higher  up  the  vibration  is  like  that  of  an 
earthquake.  I  have  seen  one  of  those  wretched 
wooden  spires  with  which  we  very  shabbily  finish 
some  of  our  stone  churches  (thinking  that  the  lidless 
blue  eye  of  heaven  cannot  tell  the  counterfeit  we  try 
to  pass  on  it)  swinging  like  a  reed  in  a  wind,  but  one 
would  hardly  think  of  such  a  thing's  happening  in  a 
stone  spire.  Does  the  Bunker-Hill  Monument  bend 
in  the  blast  like  a  blade  of  grass  ?  I  suppose  so. 

You  see,  of  course,  that  I  am  talking  in  a  cheap 
way  ; — perhaps  we  will  have  some  philosophy  by-and- 
bye ; — let  me  work  out  this  thin  mechanical  vein. — 
I  have  something  more  to  say  about  trees.  I  have 
brought  down  this  slice  of  hemlock  to  show  you. 
Tree  blew  down  in  my  woods  (that  were)  in  1852. 
Twelve  feet  and  a  half  round,  fair  girth  ; — nine  feet, 
where  I  got  my  section,  higher  up.  This  is  a  wedge, 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  247 

going  to  the  centre,  of  the  general  shape  of  a  slice  of 
apple-pie  in  a  large  and  not  opulent  family.  Length, 
about  eighteen  inches.  I  have  studied  the  growth  of 
this  tree  by  its  rings,  and  it  is  curious.  Three  hundred 
and  forty-two  rings.  Started,  therefore,  about  1510. 
The  thickness  of  the  rings  tells  the  rate  at  which  it 
grew.  For  five  or  six  years  the  rate  was  slow — then 
rapid  for  twenty  years.  A  little  before  the  year  1550 
it  began  to  grow  very  slowly,  and  so  continued  for 
about  seventy  years.  In  1620  it  took  a  new  start  and 
grew  fast  until  1714,  then  for  the  most  part  slowly 
until  1786,  when  it  started  again  and  grew  pretty  well 
and  uniformly  until  within  the  last  dozen  years,  when 
it  seems  to  have  got  on  sluggishly. 

Look  here.  Here  are  some  human  lives  laid  down 
against  the  periods  of  its  growth,  to  which  they  corre- 
sponded. This  is  Shakespeare's.  The  tree  was  seven 
inches  in  diameter  when  he  was  born ;  ten  inches 
when  he  died.  A  little  less  than  ten  inches  when 
Milton  was  born ;  seventeen  when  he  died.  Then 
comes  a  long  interval,  and  this  thread  marks  out 
Johnson's  life,  during  which  the  tree  increased  from 
twenty-two  to  twenty-nine  inches  in  diameter.  Here 
is  the  span  of  Napoleon's  career ; — the  tree  doesn't 
seem  to  have  minded  it. 

I  never  saw  the  man  yet  who  was  not  startled  at 
looking  on  this  section.  I  have  seen  many  wooden 
preachers, — never  one  like  this.  How  much  more 
striking  would  be  the  calendar  counted  on  the  rings 
of  one  of  those  awful  trees  which  were  standing  when 
Christ  was  on  earth,  and  where  that  brief  mortal  life 
is  chronicled  with  the  stolid  apathy  of  vegetable  being, 
which  remembers  all  human  history  as  a  thing  of 
yesterday  in  its  own  dateless  existence  ! 

I  have  something  more  to  say  about  elms.  A 
relative  tells  me  there  is  one  of  great  glory  in  Andover, 
near  Bradford.  I  have  some  recollections  of  the 
former  place,  pleasant  and  other.  [I  wonder  if  the 
old  Seminary  clock  strikes  as  slowly  as  it  used  to. 
My  room-mate  thought,  when  he  first  came,  it  was  the 


248  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

bell  tolling  deaths  and  people's  ages,  as  they  do  in  the 
country.  He  swore — (ministers'  sons  get  so  familiar 
with  good  words  that  they  are  apt  to  handle  them 
carelessly) — that  the  children  were  dying  by  the 
dozen,  of  all  ages,  from  one  to  twelve,  and  ran  off 
next  day  in  recess,  when  it  began  to  strike  eleven,  but 
was  caught  before  the  clock  got  through  striking.] 
At  the  foot  of  "  the  hill,"  down  in  town,  is,  or  was,  a 
tidy  old  elm,  which  was  said  to  have  been  hooped  with 
iron  to  protect  it  from  Indian  tomahawks  (Credat 
Hahnemannus),  and  to  have  grown  round  its  hoops 
and  buried  them  in  its  wood.  Of  course,  this  is  not 
the  tree  my  relative  means. 

Also,  I  have  a  very  pretty  letter  from  Norwich,  in 
Connecticut,  telling  me  of  two  noble  elms  which  are 
to  be  seen  in  that  town.  One  hundred  and  twenty- 
seven  feet  from  bough-end  to  bough-end  !  What  do 
you  say  to  that?  And  gentle  ladies  beneath  it,  that 
love  it  and  celebrate  its  praises  !  And  that  in  a  town 
of  such  supreme,  audacious,  Alpine  loveliness  as 
Norwich  ! — Only  the  dear  people  there  must  learn  to 
call  it  Norridge,  and  not  be  misled  by  the  mere 
accident  of  spelling. 

NoruncA. 

PorcAmouth. 

Cincinnati. 

What  a  sad  picture  of  our  civilisation  ! 

I  did  not  speak  to  you  of  the  great  tree  on  what 
used  to  be  the  Colman  farm,  in  Deerfield,  simply 
because  I  had  not  seen  it  for  many  years,  and  did  not 
like  to  trust  my  recollection.  But  I  had  it  in  memory, 
and  even  noted  down,  as  one  of  the  finest  trees  in 
symmetry  and  beauty  I  had  ever  seen.  I  have  re- 
ceived a  document,  signed  by  two  citizens  of  a  neigh- 
bouring town,  certified  by  the  postmaster  and  a  select- 
man, and  these  again  corroborated,  reinforced,  and 
sworn  to  by  a  member  of  that  extraordinary  college- 
class  to  which  it  is  the  good  fortune  of  my  friend  the 
Professor  to  belong,  who,  though  he  has  formerly  been 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  249 

a  member  of  Congress,  is,  I  believe,  fully  worthy  of 
confidence.  The  tree  "  girts "  eighteen  and  a  half 
feet,  and  spreads  over  a  hundred,  and  is  a  real  beauty. 
I  hope  to  meet  my  friend  under  its  branches  yet ;  if 
we  don't  have  "  youth  at  the  prow,"  we  will  have 
"  pleasure  at  the  'elm." 

And  just  now,  again,  I  have  got  a  letter  about  some 
grand  willows  in  Maine,  and  another  about  an  elm  in 
Wayland,  but  too  late  for  anything  but  thanks. 

[And  this  leads  me  to  say,  that  I  have  received  a 
great  many  communications,  in  prose  and  verse,  since 
I  began  printing  these  notes.  The  last  came  this  very 
morning,  in  the  shape  of  a  neat  and  brief  poem,  from 
New  Orleans.  I  could  not  make  any  of  them  public, 
though  sometimes  requested  to  do  so.  Some  of  them 
have  given  me  great  pleasure,  and  encouraged  me  to 
believe  I  had  friends  whose  faces  I  had  never  seen. 
If  you  are  pleased  with  anything  a  writer  says,  and 
doubt  whether  to  tell  him  of  it,  do  not  hesitate  ;  a 
pleasant  word  is  a  cordial  to  one,  who  perhaps  thinks 
he  is  tiring  you,  and  so  becomes  tired  himself.  I  purr 
very  loud  over  a  good,  honest  letter  that  says  pretty 
things  to  me.] 

Sometimes  very  young  persons  send  communica- 
tions which  they  want  forwarded  to  editors  ;  and  these 
young  persons  do  not  always  seem  to  have  right  con- 
ceptions of  these  same  editors,  and  of  the  public,  and 
of  themselves.  Here  is  a  letter  I  wrote  to  one  of 
these  young  folks,  but  on  the  whole,  thought  it  best 
not  to  send.  It  is  not  fair  to  single  out  one  for  such 
sharp  advice,  where  there  are  hundreds  that  are  in 
need  of  it. 

DEAR  SIR. — You  seem  to  be  somewhat,  but^  not  a 
great  deal,  wiser  than  I  was  at  your  age.  1  don't  wish 
to  be  understood  as  saying  too  much,  for  I  think, 
without  committing  myself  to  any  opinion  on  my 
present  state,  that  I  was  not  a  Solomon  at  that  stage 
of  development. 

You  long  to  "leap  at  a  single  bound  into  celebrity." 


250  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

Nothing  is  so  commonplace  as  to  wish  to  be  remark- 
able. Fame  usually  comes  to  those  who  are  thinking 
about  something  else, — very  rarely  to  those  who  say  to 
themselves,  "  Go  to,  now,  let  us  be  a  celebrated  indi- 
vidual ! "  The  struggle  for  fame,  as  such,  commonly 
ends  in  notoriety  ; — that  ladder  is  easy  to  climb,  but 
it  leads  to  the  pillory  which  is  crowded  with  fools  who 
could  not  hold  their  tongues,  and  rogues  who  could 
not  hide  their  tricks. 

If  you  have  the  consciousness  of  genius,  do  some- 
thing to  show  it.  The  world  is  pretty  quick,  now-a- 
days,  to  catch  the  flavour  of  true  originality  ;  if  you 
write  anything  remarkable,  the  magazines  and  news- 
papers will  find  you  out,  as  the  schoolboys  find  out 
where  the  ripe  apples  and  pears  are.  Produce  any- 
thing really  good,  and  an  intelligent  editor  will  jump 
at  it.  Don't  flatter  yourself  that  any  article  of  yours  is 
rejected  because  you  are  unknown  to  fame.  Nothing 
pleases  an  editor  more  than  to  get  anything  worth 
having  from  a  new  hand.  There  is  always  a  dearth 
of  really  fine  articles  for  a  first-rate  journal ;  for,  of  a 
hundred  pieces  received,  ninety  are  at  or  below  the 
sea-level  ;  some  have  water  enough,  but  no  head  ; 
some  head  enough,  but  no  water  ;  only  two  or  three 
are  from  full  reservoirs,  high  up  that  hill  which  is  so 
hard  to  climb. 

You  may  have  genius.  The  contrary  is  of  course 
probable,  but  it  is  not  demonstrated.  If  you  have, 
the  world  wants  you  more  than  you  want  it.  It  has 
not  only  a  desire,  but  a  passion,  for  every  spark  of 
genius  that  shows  itself  among  us  ;  there  is  not  a  bull- 
calf  in  our  national  pasture  that  can  bleat  a  rhyme, 
but  it  is  ten  to  one,  among  his  friends,  and  no  takers, 
that  he  is  the  real,  genuine,  no-mistake  Osiris. 

Qu'est  ce  qu'il  a  fait  ?  What  has  he  done  ?  That 
was  Napoleon's  test.  What  have  you  done?  Turn 
up  the  faces  of  your  picture  cards,  my  boy  !  You  need 
not  make  mouths  at  the  public  because  it  has  not 
accepted  you  at  your  own  fancy-valuation.  Do  the 
prettiest  thing  you  can,  and  wait  your  time. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  251 

For  the  verses  you  send  me,  I  will  not  say  they 
are  hopeless,  and  I  dare  not  affirm  that  they  show 
promise.  I  am  not  an  editor,  but  I  know  the  standard 
of  some  editors.  You  must  not  expect  to  "  leap  with 
a  single  bound "  into  the  society  of  those  whom  it  is 
not  flattery  to  call  your  betters.  When  "  The  Pacto- 
lian "  has  paid  you  for  a  copy  of  verses — (I  can  fur- 
nish you  a  list  of  alliterative  signatures,  beginning 
with  Annie  Aureole  and  ending  with  Zoe  Zenith), — 
when  ' '  The  Rag-bag "  has  stolen  your  piece,  after 
carefully  scratching  your  name  out, — when  "  The  Nut- 
cracker" has  thought  you  worth  shelling,  and  strung 
the  kernel  of  your  cleverest  poem, — then,  and  not  till 
then,  you  may  consider  the  presumption  against  you, 
from  the  fact  of  your  rhyming  tendency,  as  called  in 
question,  and  let  our  friends  hear  from  you,  if  you 
think  it  worth  while.  You  may  possibly  think  me 
too  candid,  and  even  accuse  me  of  incivility ;  but  let 
me  assure  you  that  I  am  not  half  so  plain-spoken  aa 
Nature,  not  half  so  rude  as  Time.  If  you  prefer  the 
long  jolting  of  public  opinion  to  the  gentle  touch  of 
friendship,  try  it  like  a  man.  Only  remember  this, — 
that,  if  a  bushel  of  potatoes  is  shaken  in  a  market-cart 
without  springs  to  it,  the  small  potatoes  always  get  to 
the  bottom. 

Believe  me,  etc.,  etc. 

I  always  think  of  verse-writers,  when  I  am  in  this 
vein  ;  for  these  are  by  far  the  most  exacting,  eager, 
self-weighing,  restless,  querulous,  unreasonable  literary 
persons  one  is  like  to  meet  with.  Is  a  young  man  in 
the  habit  of  writing  verses?  Then  the  presumption 
is  that  he  is  an  inferior  person.  For,  look  you,  there 
are  at  least  nine  chances  in  ten  that  he  writes  poor 
verses.  Now  the  habit  of  chewing  on  rhymes  with- 
out sense  and  soul  to  match  them  is,  like  that  of  using 
any  other  narcotic,  at  once  a  proof  of  feebleness  and  a 
debilitating  agent.  A  young  man  can  get  rid  of  the  pre- 
sumption against  him  afforded  by  his  writing  verses  only 
by  convincing  us  that  they  are  verses  worth  writing. 


252  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

All  this  sounds  hard  and  rough,  but,  observe,  it  is 
not  addressed  to  any  individual,  and  of  course  does  not 
refer  to  any  reader  of  these  pages.  I  would  always 
treat  any  given  young  person  passing  through  the 
meteoric  showers  which  rain  down  on  the  brief  period 
of  adolescence  with  great  tenderness.  God  forgive  us  if 
we  ever  speak  harshly  to  young  creatures  on  the  strength 
of  these  ugly  truths,  and  so,  sooner  or  later,  smite 
some  tender-souled  poet  or  poetess  on  the  lips  who 
might  have  sung  the  world  into  sweet  trances,  had  we 
not  silenced  the  matin-song  in  its  first  low  breathings  ! 
Just  as  my  heart  yearns  over  the  unloved,  just  so  it 
sorrows  for  the  ungifted  who  are  doomed  to  the  pangs 
of  an  undeceived  self-estimate.  I  have  always  tried 
to  be  gentle  with  the  most  hopeless  cases.  My  experi- 
ence, however,  has  not  been  encouraging. 

X.  Y.,  aet.  18,  a  cheaply-got- up  youth,  with 

narrow  jaws,  and  broad,  bony,  cold,  red  hands,  having 
been  laughed  at  by  the  girls  in  his  village,  and  ' '  got 
the  mitten"  (pronounced  mittin)  two  or  three  times, 
falls  to  souling  and  controlling,  and  youthing  and 
truthing,  in  the  newspapers.  Sends  me  some  strings 
of  verses,  candidates  for  the  Orthopaedic  Infirmary, 
all  of  them,  in  which  I  learn  for  the  millionth  time 
one  of  the  following  facts  :  either  that  something 
about  a  chime  is  sublime,  or  that  something  about 
time  is  sublime,  or  that  something  about  a  chime  is 
concerned  with  time,  or  that  something  about  a  rhyme 
is  sublime  or  concerned  with  time  or  with  a  chime. 
Wishes  my  opinion  of  the  same,  with  advice  as  to  his 
future  course. 

What  shall  I  do  about  it?  Tell  him  the  whole 
truth,  and  send  him  a  ticket  of  admission  to  the  In- 
stitution for  Idiots  and  Feeble-minded  youth  ?  One 
doesn't  like  to  be  cruel, — and  yet  one  hates  to  lie. 
Therefore  one  softens  down  the  ugly  central  fact  of 
donkeyism, — recommends  study  of  good  models, — 
that  writing  verse  should  be  an  incidental  occupation 
only,  not  interfering  with  the  hoe,  the  needle,  the 
lapstone,  or  the  ledger, —  and,  above  all,  that  there 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  253 

should  be  no  hurry  in  printing  what  is  written.  Not 
the  least  use  in  all  this.  The  poetaster  who  has  tasted 
type  is  done  for.  He  is  like  a  man  who  has  once 
been  a  candidate  for  the  Presidency.  He  feeds  on 
the  madder  of  his  delusion  all  his  days,  and  his  very 
bones  grow  red  with  the  glow  of  his  foolish  fancy. 
One  of  these  young  brains  is  like  a  bunch  of  India 
crackers :  once  touch  fire  to  it  and  it  is  best  to  keep 
hands  off  until  it  has  done  popping, — if  it  ever  stops. 
I  have  two  letters  on  file :  one  is  a  pattern  of  adula- 
tion, the  other  of  impertinence.  My  reply  to  the  first, 
containing  the  best  advice  I  could  give,  conveyed  in 
courteous  language,  had  brought  out  the  second. 
There  was  some  sport  in  this,  but  Dulness  is  not 
commonly  a  game  fish,  and  only  sulks  after  he  is 
struck.  You  may  set  it  down  as  a  truth  which  admits 
of  few  exceptions,  that  those  who  ask  your  opinion 
really  want  your  praise,  and  will  be  contented  with 
nothing  less. 

There  is  another  kind  of  application  to  which  editors, 
or  those  supposed  to  have  access  to  them,  are  liable, 
and  which  often  proves  trying  and  painful.  One  is 
appealed  to  in  behalf  of  some  person  in  needy  circum- 
stances who  wishes  to  make  a  living  by  the  pen.  A 
manuscript  accompanying  the  letter  is  offered  for 
publication.  It  is  not  commonly  brilliant,  too  often 
lamentably  deficient.  If  Rachel's  saying  is  true,  that 
"  fortune  is  the  measure  of  intelligence,"  then  poverty 
is  evidence  of  limited  capacity,  which  it  too  frequently 
proves  to  be,  notwithstanding  a  noble  exception  here 
and  there.  Now  an  editor  is  a  person  under  a  con- 
tract with  the  public  to  furnish  them  with  the  best 
things  he  can  afford  for  his  money.  Charity  shown 
by  the  publication  of  an  inferior  article  would  be  like 
the  generosity  of  Claude  Duval  and  the  other  gentle- 
men highwaymen,  who  pitied  the  poor  so  much  they 
robbed  the  rich  to  have  the  means  of  relieving  them. 

Though  I  am  not  and  never  was  an  editor,  I  know 
something  of  the  trials  to  which  they  are  submitted. 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  develop  enormous 


254  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

calluses  at  every  point  of  contact  with  authorship. 
Their  business  is  not  a  matter  of  sympathy,  but  of 
intellect.  They  must  reject  the  unfit  productions  of 
those  whom  they  long  to  befriend,  because  it  would 
be  a  profligate  charity  to  accept  them.  One  cannot 
burn  his  house  down  to  warm  the  hands  even  of  the 
fatherless  and  the  widow. 

THE    PROFESSOR    UNDER    CHLOROFORM 

You  haven't  heard  about  my  friend  the  Pro- 
fessor's first  experiment  in  the  use  of  anaesthetics, 
have  you  ? 

He  was  mightily  pleased  with  the  reception  of  that 
poem  of  his  about  the  chaise.  He  spoke  to  me  once 
or  twice  about  another  poem  of  similar  character  he 
wanted  to  read  me,  which  1  told  him  I  would  listen 
to  and  criticise. 

One  day,  after  dinner,  he  came  in  with  his  face 
tied  up,  looking  very  red  in  the  cheeks  and  heavy 
about  the  eyes. — HyVye? — he  said,  and  made  for  an 
arm-chair,  in  which  he  placed  first  his  hat  and  then 
his  person,  going  smack  through  the  crown  of  the 
former,  as  neatly  as  they  do  the  trick  at  the  circus. 
The  Professor  jumped  at  the  explosion  as  if  he  had 
sat  down  on  one  of  those  small  calthrops  our  grand- 
fathers used  to  sow  round  in  the  grass  when  there 
were  Indians  about, — iron  stars,  each  ray  a  rusty  thorn 
an  inch  and  a  half  long, — stick  through  mocassins  into 
feet, — cripple  'em  on  the  spot,  and  give  'em  lockjaw  in 
a  day  or  two. 

At  the  same  time  he  let  off  one  of  those  big  words 
which  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  best  man's  vocabulary, 
but  perhaps  never  turn  up  in  his  life, — just  as  every 
man's  hair  may  stand  on  end,  but  in  most  men  it 
never  does. 

After  he  had  got  calm,  he  pulled  out  a  sheet  or  two 
of  manuscript,  together  with  a  smaller  scrap,  on 
which,  as  he  said,  he  had  just  been  writing  an  intro- 
duction or  prelude  to  the  main  performance.  A  certain 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  255 

suspicion  had  come  into  my  mind  that  the  Professor 
was  not  quite  right,  which  was  confirmed  by  the  way 
he  talked  ;  but  I  let  him  begin.  This  is  the  way  he 
read  it : — 

Prelude 

I'M  the  fellah  that  tole  one  day 
The  tale  of  the  won'erful  one-hoss  shay. 
Wan'  to  hear  another  ?     Say. 
— Funny,  was  n'it  ?     Made  me  laugh, — 
I'm  too  modest,  I  am,  by  half, — 
Made  me  laugh's  though  I  sh'd  split, — 
Cahn'  a  fellah  like  fellah's  own  wit  ? 
— Fellahs  keep  sayin',  "  Well,  now  that's  nice  ; 
Did  it  once,  but  cahn'  do  it  twice.'' — 
Don'  you  b'lieve  the  'z  no  more  fat ; 
Lots  in  the  kitchen  'z  good  'z  that. 
Fus'-rate  throw,  'n'  no  mistake, — 
Han'  us  the  props  for  another  shake  ; — 
Know  I'll  try,  V  guess  I'll  win  ; 
Here  sh'  goes  for  hit  'm  ag'in  ! 

Here  I  thought  it  necessary  to  interpose. — Pro- 
fessor,— I  said, — you  are  inebriated.  The  style  of 
what  you  call  your  "Prelude"  shows  that  it  was 
written  under  cerebral  excitement.  Your  articulation 
is  confused.  You  have  told  me  three  times  in  suc- 
cession, in  exactly  the  same  words,  that  I  was  the 
only  true  friend  you  had  in  the  world  that  you  would 
unbutton  your  heart  to.  You  smell  distinctly  and 
decidedly  of  spirits. — I  spoke,  and  paused  ;  tender, 
but  firm. 

Two  large  tears  orbed  themselves  beneath  the  Pro- 
fessor's lids, — in  obedience  to  the  principle  of  gravita- 
tion celebrated  in  that  delicious  bit  of  bladdery  bathos, 
"  The  very  law  that  moulds  a  tear,"  with  which  the 
( '  Edinburgh  Review  "  attempted  to  put  down  Master 
George  Gordon  when  that  young  man  was  foolishly 
trying  to  make  himself  conspicuous. 

One  of  these  tears  peeped  over  the  edge  of  the  lid 


266  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

until  it  lost  its  balance, — slid  an  inch  and  waited  for 
reinforcements, — swelled  again, — rolled  down  a  little 
further, — stopped, — moved  on, — and  at  last  fell  on 
the  back  of  the  Professor's  hand.  He  held  it  up  for 
me  to  look  at,  and  lifted  his  eyes,  brimful,  till  they 
met  mine. 

I  couldn't  stand  it, — I  always  break  down  when  folks 
cry  in  my  face, — BO  I  hugged  him,  and  said  ke  was  a 
dear  old  boy,  and  asked  him  kindly  what  was  the 
matter  with  him,  and  what  made  him  smell  so  dread- 
fully strong  of  spirits. 

Upset  his  alcohol  lamp, — he  said, — and  spilt  the 
alcohol  on  his  legs.  That  was  it, — But  what  had  he 
been  doing  to  get  his  head  into  such  a  state  ? — had  he 
really  committed  an  excess?  What  was  the  matter? 
— Then  it  came  out  that  he  had  been  taking  chloro- 
form to  have  a  tooth  out,  which  had  left  him  in  a  very 
queer  state,  in  which  he  had  written  the  "  Prelude " 
given  above,  and  under  the  influence  of  which  he 
evidently  was  still. 

I  took  the  manuscript  from  his  hands  and  read  the 
following  continuation  of  the  lines  he  had  begun  to 
read  me,  while  he  made  up  for  two  or  three  nights' 
lost  sleep  as  he  best  might. 

PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY ; 

OR,  THE  PRESIDENT'S  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 

A  MATHEMATICAL  STORY 

FACTS  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 
At  Cambridge.     Is  kept  in  the  College  there. 
Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
That's  remarkable  when  I  say 
It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke's  day. 
(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 
Died,  at  one  hundred,  years  ago.) 
He  took  lodging  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  '69. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  257 

Know  Old  Cambridge  ?     Hope  you  do. — 
Born  there  ?     Don't  say  so  !     I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof, — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof. — 
"  Gambrel  ? — Gambrel  ?  "     Let  me  beg 
You'll  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg, — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof, — 
That's  the  gambrel ;  hence  gambrel-roof) 
— Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen, — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 
Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise, — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 
In  a  quiet  slumber  lies, 
Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbour  it  seems  to  be, 
Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 
Rows  of  grey  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand  ; 
Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 
Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen, — 
One  wave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four, 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor  ; 
Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 
Wandering  off  from  shore  to  shore 
With  its  freight  of  golden  ore  ! 
• — Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play  ; — 
Better  keep  your  girls  away  ; 
Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 
Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 
And  every  classic  beach  is  strowu 
With  heart-shaped  pebbles  of  blood-red  stone. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  ; — 
I'm  talking  about  an  old  arm-chair. 
You've  heard,  no  doubt,  of  PARSON  TURKU. 
Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell ; 


258  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

Married  one  of  the  Mathers'  folk  ; 

Got  with  his  wife  a  chair  of  oak, — 

Funiiy  old  chair,  with  seat  like  wedge, 

Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge, — 

One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things, 

Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings,— 

But  heavy,  and  wide,  and  deep,  and  grand, — 

Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land, — 

Chief-Justice  Sewall  a  cause  to  try  in, 

Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit — and  lie — in. 

Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 

To  a  certain  student, — SMITH  by  name  ; 

These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told  : 

"  Saide  Smith  saide  Chaire  to  have  and  holde* 

When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 

To  ye  oldest  Youth  in  ye  Senior  Classe. 

On  payment  of" — (naming  a  certain  sum) — 

"  By  him  to  whom  y6  Chaire  shall  come  ; 

He  to  ye  oldest  Senior  next,       ' 

And  soe  forever" — (thus  runs  the  text), — 

"  But  one  Crown  lesse  than  he  gave  to  claime, 

That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same." 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  BROWNS 
And  took  his  money, — five  silver  crowns. 
Brown  delivered  it  up  to  MOORE, 
Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 
Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  LEE, 
Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 
Lee  conveyed  it  unto  DREW, 
And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 
Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  DUNN, — 
All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 
Dunn  released  the  chair  to  HALL, 
And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 
And  now  it  passed  to  a  second  BROWN, 
Who  took  it,  and  likewise  claimed  a  crown. 
When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  WARE, 
Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair, 
He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair  ; 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  259 

And  Ware,  being  honest  (as  all  Wares  be), 
He  paid  one  POTTER,  who  took  it,  three. 
Four  got  ROBINSON  ;  five  got  Dix  ; 
JOHNSON  primus  demanded  six  ; 
And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 
— When  paper  money  became  so  cheap, 
Folks  wouldn't  count  it,  but  said  "  a  heap," 
A  certain  RICHARDS,  the  books  declare, — 
(A.M.  in  '90  ?     I've  looked  with  care 
Through  the  Triennial, — name  not  there), 
This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eight  score  pounds,  but  would  have  ten  ; 
Nine,  I  think,  was  the  sum  he  took, — 
Not  quite  certain, — but  see  the  book. — 
By-and-by  the  wars  were  still, 
But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson's  will. 
The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet, 
But  saddled  with  such  a  monstrous  debt ! 
Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 
Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair  ! 
But  dead  men's  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 
And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white, 
Plain  enough  for  a  child  to  spell. 
What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 
For  the  chair  was  a  kind  of  nightmare  curse, 
And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a  last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 
They  got  old  GOVERNOR  HANCOCK  out. 
The  Governor  came,  with  his  Light-horse  Troop 
And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a-hoop  ; 
Halberds  glittered,  and  colours  flew, 
French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew, 
The  yellow  fifes  whistled  between  their  teeth 
And  the  bumble-bee  brass  drums  boomed  beneath  ; 
So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 
Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 
— The  Governor  " hefted"  the  crowns,  and  said, — • 
"  A  will  is  a  will,  and  the  parson's  dead." 


260  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.     Said  he, — 

"There  is  your  p'int.     And  here's  my  fee. 

These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil, — 

On  such  conditions  I  BREAK  THE  WILL  !  " 

The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should  be. 

(Just  wait  a  minute  and  then  you'll  see.) 

The  President  prayed.     Then  all  was  still, 

And  the  Governor  rose  and  BROKE  THE  WILL  ! " 

— "  About  those  conditions?"     Well,  now  you  go 

And  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  then  you'll  know. 

Once  a  year,  on  Commencement-day, 

If  you'll  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 

You'll  see  the  President  in  the  CHAIR, 

Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 

The  President  rises  ;  both  old  and  young 

May  hear  his  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 

The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 

Is  this  :  Can  I  keep  this  old  arm-chair  ? 

And  then  his  Excellency  bows, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 

The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name  ; 

He  bows  like  t'other,  which  means  the  same. 

And  all  the  officers  round  'em  bow, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 

And  a  lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 

Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 

And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 

That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen  !     Learn  to  give 
Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 
Don't  be  silly  and  think  you'll  try 
To  bother  the  colleges  when  you  die, 
With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 
That  Knowledge  may  starve  while  Law  grows  fat ; 
For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  wouldn't  spill, 
And  there's  always  a  flaw  in  a  donkey's  will ! 

Hospitality  is  a  good  deal  a  matter  of  latitude, 

I    suspect.      The    shade    of   a    palm-tree    serves    an 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  261 

African  for  a  hut ;  his  dwelling  is  all  door  and  no 
walls ;  everybody  can  come  in.  To  make  a  morning 
call  on  an  Esquimaux  acquaintance,  one  must  creep 
through  a  long  tunnel  ;  his  house  is  all  walls  and  no 
door,  except  such  a  one  as  an  apple  with  a  worm-hole 
has.  One  might,  very  probably,  trace  a  regular 
gradation  between  these  two  extremes.  In  cities 
where  the  evenings  are  generally  hot,  the  people 
have  porches  at  their  doors,  where  they  sit,  and  this 
is,  of  course,  a  provocative  to  the  interchange  of 
civilities.  A  good  deal,  which  in  colder  regions  is 
ascribed  to  mean  dispositions,  belongs  really  to  mean 
temperature. 

Once  in  a  while,  even  in  our  northern  cities,  at 
noon,  in  a  very  hot  summer's  day,  one  may  realise,  by 
a  sudden  extension  in  his  sphere  of  consciousness,  how 
closely  he  is  shut  up  for  the  most  part.  Do  you  not 
remember  something  like  this  ?  July,  between  1  and 
2  p.m.,  Fahrenheit  96°,  or  thereabout.  Windows  all 
gaping,  like  the  mouths  of  panting  dogs.  Long,  sting- 
ing cry  of  a  locust  comes  in  from  a  tree,  half  a  mile 
off;  had  forgotten  there  was  such  a  tree.  Baby's 
screams  from  a  house  several  blocks  distant ; — never 
knew  there  were  any  babies  in  the  neighbourhood 
before.  Tinman  pounding  something  that  clatters 
dreadfully, — very  distinct,  but  don't  remember  any 
tinman's  shop  near  by.  Horses  stamping  on  pavement 
to  get  off  flies.  When  you  hear  these  four  sounds, 
you  may  set  it  down  as  a  warm  day.  Then  it  is  that 
one  would  like  to  imitate  the  mode  of  life  of  the 
native  at  Sierra  Leone,  as  somebody  has  described  it : 
stroll  into  the  market  in  natural  costume, — buy  a 
water-melon  for  a  half-penny, — split  it,  and  scoop 
out  the  middle,— sit  down  in  one  half  of  the  empty 
rind,  clap  the  other  on  one's  head,  and  feast  upon 
the  pulp. 

I  see  some  of  the  London  journals  have  been 

attacking  some  of  their  literary  people  for  lecturing,  on 
the  ground  of  its  being  a  public  exhibition  of  them- 
selves for  money.  A  popular  author  can  print  his 


262  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

lecture  ;  if  he  deliver  it,  it  is  a  case  of  queestum 
corpora,  or  making  profit  of  his  person.  None  but 
"snobs"  do  that.  Ergo,  etc.  To  this  I  reply, 
Negutur  minor.  Her  Most  Gracious  Majesty,  the 
Queen,  exhibits  herself  to  the  public  as  a  part  of  the 
service  for  which  she  is  paid.  We  do  not  consider  it 
low-bred  in  her  to  pronounce  her  own  speech,  and 
should  prefer  it  so  to  hearing  it  from  any  other 
person,  or  reading  it  His  Grace  and  his  Lordship 
exhibit  themselves  very  often  for  popularity,  and  their 
houses  every  day  for  money. — No,  if  a  man  shows 
himself  other  than  he  is,  if  he  belittles  himself  before 
an  audience  for  hire,  then  he  acts  unworthily.  But 
a  true  word,  fresh  from  the  lips  of  a  true  man,  is 
worth  paying  for,  at  the  rate  of  eight  dollars  a  day,  or 
even  of  fifty  dollars  a  lecture.  The  taunt  must  be  an 
outbreak  of  jealousy  against  the  renowned  authors 
who  have  the  audacity  to  be  also  orators.  The  sub- 
lieutenants (of  the  press)  stick  a  too  popular  writer 
and  speaker  with  an  epithet  in  England,  instead  of 
with  a  rapier,  as  in  France. — Pooh  !  All  England  is 
one  great  menagerie,  and,  all  at  once,  the  jackal,  who 
admires  the  gilded  cage  of  the  royal  beast,  must  pro- 
test against  the  vulgarity  of  the  talking-bird's  and  the 
nightingale's  being  willing  to  become  a  part  of  the 
exhibition  ! 

THE    LONG    PATH 

(Last  of  the  Parentheses) 

Yes,  that  was  my  last  walk  with  the  schoolmistress. 
It  happened  to  be  the  end  of  a  term  ;  and  before  the 
next  began,  a  very  nice  young  woman,  who  had  been 
her  assistant,  was  announced  as  her  successor,  and 
she  was  provided  for  elsewhere.  So  it  was  no  longer 

the  schoolmistress  that  I  walked  with,  but Let  us 

not  be  in  unseemly  haste.  I  shall  call  her  the 
schoolmistress  still ;  some  of  you  love  her  under  that 
name. 

When  it  became  known  among  the   boarders 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  263 

that  two  of  their  number  had  joined  hands  to  walk 
down  the  long  path  of  life  side  by  side,  there  was,  as 
you  may  suppose,  no  small  sensation.  I  confess  I 
pitied  our  landlady.  It  took  her  all  of  a  suddin, — she 
said.  Had  not  known  that  we  was  keepin'  company, 
and  never  mistrusted  anything  partic'lar.  Ma'am  was 
right  to  better  herself.  Didn't  look  very  rugged  to 
take  care  of  a  femily,  but  could  get  hired  haalp,  she 
calculated. — The  great  maternal  instinct  came  crowd- 
ing up  in  her  soul  just  then,  and  her  eyes  wandered 
until  they  settled  on  her  daughter. 

No,  poor  dear  woman, — that  could  not  have 

been.  But  I  am  dropping  one  of  my  internal  tears 
for  you,  with  this  pleasant  smile  on  my  face  all  the  time. 

The  great  mystery  of  God's  providence  is  the  per- 
mitted crushing  out  of  flowering  instincts.  Life  is 
maintained  by  the  respiration  of  oxygen  and  of  senti- 
ments. In  the  long  catalogue  of  scientific  cruelties 
there  is  hardly  anything  quite  so  painful  to  think  of  as 
that  experiment  of  putting  an  animal  under  the  bell  of 
an  air-pump  and  exhausting  the  air  from  it.  [I  never 
saw  the  accursed  trick  performed.  Laus  Deo  /]  There 
comes  a  time  when  the  souls  of  human  beings,  women, 
perhaps,  more  even  than  men,  begin  to  faint  for  the 
atmosphere  of  the  affections  they  were  made  to  breathe. 
Then  it  is  that  Society  places  its  transparent  bell-glass 
over  the  young  woman  who  is  to  be  the  subject  of  one 
of  its  fatal  experiments.  The  element  by  which  only 
the  heart  lives  is  sucked  out  of  her  crystalline  prison. 
Watch  her  through  its  transparent  walls  ; — her  bosom 
is  heaving  ;  but  it  is  in  a  vacuum.  Death  is  no  riddle 
compared  to  this.  I  remember  a  poor  girl's  story  in 
the  "  Book  of  Martyrs."  The  "  dry-pan  and  the 
gradual  fire"  were  the  images  that  frightened  her 
most.  How  many  have  withered  and  wasted  under  as 
glow  a  torment  in  the  walls  of  that  larger  Inquisition 
which  we  call  Civilization  ! 

Yes,  my  surface-thought  laughs  at  you,  you  foolish, 
pl<i;a,  over-dressed,  mincing,  cheaply  organised,  self- 
saturated  young  person,  whoever  you  may  be,  now 


264  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

reading  this, — little  thinking  you  are  what  I  describe, 
and  in  blissful  unconsciousness  that  you  are  destined 
to  the  lingering  asphyxia  of  soul  which  is  the  lot  of 
such  multitudes  worthier  than  yourself.  But  it  is 
only  my  surface-thought  which  laughs.  For  that 
great  procession  of  the  UNLOVED,  who  not  only  wear 
the  crown  of  thorns,  but  must  hide  it  under  the  locks 
of  brown  or  grey, — under  the  snowy  cap,  under  the 
chilling  turban, — hide  it  even  from  themselves, — per- 
haps never  know  they  wear  it,  though  it  kills  them, — 
there  is  no  depth  of  tenderness  in  my  nature  that  Pity 
has  not  sounded.  Somewhere,— somewhere, — love  is 
in  store  for  them, — the  universe  must  not  be  allowed 
to  fool  them  so  cruelly.  What  infinite  pathos  in  the 
small,  half-unconscious  artifices  by  which  unattractive 
young  persons  seek  to  recommend  themselves  to  the 
favour  of  those  towards  whom  our  dear  sisters,  the 
unloved,  like  the  rest,  are  impelled  by  their  God-given 
instincts  ! 

Read  what  the  singing-women — one  to  ten  thousand 
of  the  suffering  women — tell  us,  and  think  of  the  griefs 
that  die  unspoken  !  Nature  is  in  earnest  when  she 
makes  a  woman  ;  and  there  are  women  enough  lying 
in  the  next  churchyard  with  very  commonplace  blue 
slate-stones  at  their  head  and  feet,  for  whom  it  was 
just  as  true  that  "  all  sounds  of  life  assumed  one  tone 
of  love,"  as  for  Letitia  Landon,  of  whom  Elizabeth 
Browning  said  it ;  but  she  could  give  words  to  her 
grief,  and  they  could  not.  — Will  you  hear  a  few  stanzas 
of  mine  ? 

THE  VOICELESS 

WE  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber, — 
Cut  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild  flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them  ; — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  ! 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  265 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad  story, — 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses, — • 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  ! 

I  hope  that  our  landlady's  daughter  is  not  so  badly 
off,  after  all.  That  young  man  from  another  city  who 
made  the  remark  which  you  remember  about  Boston 
State-house  and  Boston  folks,  has  appeared  at  our 
table  repeatedly  of  late,  and  has  seemed  to  me  rather 
attentive  to  this  young  lady.  Only  last  evening  I  saw 
him  leaning  over  her  while  she  was  playing  the 
accordion, — indeed,  I  undertook  to  join  them  in  a 
song,  and  got  as  far  as  "  Come  rest  in  this  boo-oo," 
when,  my  voice  getting  tremulous,  I  turned  off,  as  one 
steps  out  of  a  procession,  and  left  the  basso  and 
soprano  to  finish  it.  I  see  no  reason  why  this  young 
woman  should  not  be  a  very  proper  match  for  a  man 
that  laughs  about  Boston  State-house.  He  can't  be 
very  particular. 

Tiie  young  fellow  whom  I  have  so  often  mentioned 
was  a  little  free  in  his  remarks,  but  very  good-natured. 
— Sorry  to  have  you  go,  —  he  said.  —  Schoolma'am 
made  a  mistake  not  to  wait  for  me.  Haven't  taken 
anything  but  mournin'  fruit  at  breakfast  since  I  heard 

of  it. Mourning  fruit, — said  I, — what's  that  ? — 

Huckleberries  and  blackberries, — said  he  ;— couldn't 


266  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

eat  in  colours,  raspberries,  currants,  and  such,  after  a 
solemn  thing  like  this  happening. — The  conceit  seemed 
to  please  the  young  fellow.  If  you  will  believe  it, 
when  we  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning,  he 
had  carried  it  out  as  follows.  You  know  those  odious 
little  "  saas-plates  "  that  figure  so  largely  at  boarding- 
houses,  and  especially  at  taverns,  into  which  a  strenuous 
attendant  female  trowels  little  dabs,  sombre  of  tint  and 
heterogeneous  of  composition,  which  it  makes  you  feel 
home-sick  to  look  at,  and  into  which  you  poke  the 
elastic  coppery  teaspoon  with  the  air  of  a  cat  dipping 
her  foot  into  a  wash-tub, — (not  that  I  mean  to  say 
anything  against  them,  for  when  they  are  of  tinted 
porcelain  or  starry  many-faceted  crystal,  and  hold 
clean  bright  berries,  or  pale  virgin  honey,  or  "  lucent 
syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon,"  and  the  teaspoon  is  of 
white  silver,  with  the  Tower-stamp,  solid,  but  not 
brutally  heavy, — as  people  in  the  green  stage  of 
millionism  will  have  them, — I  can  dally  with  their 
amber  semi-fluids  or  glossy  spherules  without  a  shiver), 
— you  know  these  small,  deep  dishes,  I  say.  When  we 
came  down  the  next  morning,  each  of  these  (two  only 
excepted)  was  covered  witli  a  broad  leaf.  On  lifting 
this,  each  boarder  found  a  small  heap  of  solemn  black 
huckleberries.  But  one  of  those  plates  held  red 
currants,  and  was  covered  with  a  red  rose  ;  the  other 
held  white  currants,  and  was  covered  with  a  white 
rose.  There  was  a  laugh  at  this  at  first,  and  then  a 
short  silence,  and  I  noticed  that  her  lip  trembled,  and 
the  old  gentleman  opposite  was  in  trouble  to  get  at  his 
bandanna  handkerchief. 

"What  was  the  use  in  waiting?"    "We  should 

be  too  late  for  Switzerland,  that  season,  if  we  waited 
much  longer." — The  hand  I  held  trembled  in  mine, 
and  the  eyes  fell  meekly,  as  Esther  bowed  herself 
before  the  feet  of  Ahasuerus. — She  had  been  reading 
that  chapter,  for  she  looked  up, — if  there  was  a  film 
of  moisture  over  her  eyes  there  was  also  the  faintest 
shadow  of  a  distant  smile  skirting  her  lips,  but  not 
enough  to  accent  the  dimples, — and  said,  in  her 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  267 

pretty,  still  way, — "  If  it  please  the  king,  and  if  I 
have  found  favour  in  his  sight,  and  the  thing  seem 
right  before  the  king,  and  I  be  pleasing  in  his 
eyes  " 

I  don't  remember  what  King  Ahasuerus  did  or  said 
when  Esther  got  just  to  that  point  of  her  soft,  humble 
words, — but  I  know  what  I  did.  That  quotation  from 
Scripture  was  cut  short,  anyhow.  We  came  to  a  com- 
promise on  the  great  question,  and  the  time  was 
settled  for  the  last  day  of  summer. 

In  the  meantime,  I  talked  on  with  our  boarders, 
much  as  usual,  as  you  may  see  by  what  I  have  re- 
ported. I  must  say,  I  was  pleased  with  a  certain 
tenderness  they  all  showed  toward  us,  after  the  first 
excitement  of  the  news  was  over.  It  came  out  in 
trivial  matters, — but  each  one  in  his,  or  her  way,  mani- 
fested kindness.  Our  landlady,  for  instance,  when  we 
had  chickens,  sent  the  liver  instead  of  the  gizzard, 
with  the  wing,  for  the  schoolmistress.  This  was  not 
an  accident ;  the  two  are  never  mistaken,  though  some 
landladies  appear  as  if  they  did  not  know  the  differ- 
ence. The  whole  of  the  company  were  even  more 
respectfully  attentive  to  my  remarks  than  usual. 
There  was  no  idle  punning,  and  very  little  winking 
on  the  part  of  that  lively  young  gentleman  who,  as  the 
reader  may  remember,  occasionally  interposed  some 
playful  question  or  remark,  which  could  hardly  be 
considered  relevant, — except  when  the  least  allusion 
was  made  to  matrimony,  when  he  would  look  at  the 
landlady's  daughter,  and  wink  with  both  sides  of  his 
face,  until  she  would  ask  what  he  was  pokin'  his  fun 
at  her  for,  and  if  he  wasn't  ashamed  of  himself.  In 
fact,  they  all  behaved  very  handsomely,  so  that  I  really 
felt  sorry  at  the  thought  of  leaving  my  boarding-house. 

I  suppose  you  think  that,  because  I  lived  at  a  plain 
widow-woman's  plain  table,  I  was  of  course  more  or 
less  infirm  in  point  of  worldly  fortune.  You  may  not 
be  sorry  to  learn  that,  though  not  what  great  merchants 
call  very  rich,  I  was  comfortable, — comfortable, — so 
that  most  of  those  moderate  luxuries  I  described  in 


268  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

my  verses  on  Contentment — most  of  them,  I  say — were 
within  our  reach,  if  we  chose  to  have  them.  But  I 
found  out  that  the  schoolmistress  had  a  vein  of  charity 
about  her,  which  had  hitherto  been  worked  on  a  small 
silver  and  copper  basis,  which  made  her  think  less, 
perhaps,  of  luxuries  than  even  I  did, — modestly  as  I 
have  expressed  my  wishes. 

It  is  a  rather  pleasant  thing  to  tell  a  poor  young 
woman,  whom  one  has  contrived  to  win  without 
showing  his  rent-roll,  that  she  has  found  what  the 
world  values  so  highly,  in  following  the  lead  of  her 
affections.  That  was  an  enjoyment  I  was  now  ready  for. 

I  began  abruptly :— Do  you  know  that  you  are  a 
rich  young  person? 

I  know  that  I  am  very  rich, — she  said. — Heaven  has 
given  me  more  than  I  ever  asked ;  for  I  had  not  thought 
love  was  ever  meant  for  me. 

It  was  a  woman's  confession,  and  her  voice  fell  to  a 
whisper  as  it  threaded  the  last  words. 

I  don't  mean  that, — I  said, — you  blessed  little  saint 
and  seraph  ! — if  there's  an  angel  missing  in  the  New 
Jerusalem,  inquire  for  her  at  this  boarding  house  ! — I 
don't  mean  that !  I  mean  that  I — that  is,  you — am — 
are — confound  it ! — I  mean  that  you'll  be  what  most 
people  call  a  lady  of  fortune. — And  I  looked  full  in  her 
eyes  for  the  effect  of  the  announcement. 

There  wasn't  any.  She  said  she  was  thankful  that 
I  had  what  would  save  me  from  drudgery,  and  that 
some  other  time  I  should  tell  her  about  it. — I  never 
made  a  greater  failure  in  an  attempt  to  produce  a 
sensation. 

So  the  last  day  of  summer  came.  It  was  our  choice 
to  go  to  the  church,  but  we  had  a  kind  of  reception  at 
the  boarding-house.  The  presents  were  all  arranged, 
and  among  them  none  gave  more  pleasure  than  the 
modest  tributes  of  our  fellow-boarders, — for  there  was 
not  one,  I  believe,  who  did  not  send  something.  The 
landlady  would  insist  on  making  an  elegant  bride- 
cake, with  her  own  hands  ;  to  which  Master  Benjamin 
Franklin  wished  to  add  certain  embellishments  out 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  269 

of  his  private  funds, — namely,  a  Cupid  in  a  mouse- 
trap, done  in  white  sugar,  and  two  miniature  flags 
with  the  stars  and  stripes,  which  had  a  very  pleasing 
effect,  I  assure  you.  The  landlady's  daughter  sent 
a  richly-bound  copy  of  Tupper's  Poems.  On  a  blank 
leaf  was  the  following,  written  in  a  very  delicate  and 
careful  hand  : — 

Presented  to  ...  by  ... 

On  the  eve  ere  her  union  in  holy  matrimony 
May  sunshine  ever  beam  o'er  her  ! 

Even  the  poor  relative  thought  she  must  do  some- 
thing, and  sent  a  copy  of  "  The  Whole  duty  of  Man," 
bound  in  very  attractive  variegated  sheep-skin,  the 
edges  nicely  marbled.  From  the  divinity-student  came 
the  loveliest  English  edition  of  Keble's  "  Christian 
Year."  I  opened  it,  when  it  came,  to  the  Fourth  Sun- 
day in  Lent,  and  read  that  angelic  poem,  sweeter  than 
anything  I  can  remember  since  Xavier's  ' '  My  God,  I 
love  Thee." 1  am  not  a  Churchman, — I  don't  be- 
lieve in  planting  oaks  in  flower-pots, — but  such  a  poem 
as  "  The  Rosebud ''  makes  one's  heart  a  proselyte 
to  the  culture  it  grows  from.  Talk  about  it  as  much 
as  you  like, — one's  breeding  shows  itself  nowhere 
more  than  in  his  religion.  A  man  should  be  a 
gentleman  in  his  hymns  and  prayers  ;  the  fondness 
for  "  scenes,"  among  vulgar  saints,  contrasts  so  meanly 
with  that — 

"  God  only  and  good  angels  look 
Behind  the  blissful  scene," — 

and  that  other, — 

"  He  could  not  trust  his  melting  soul 
But  in  his  Maker's  sight,'*- 

that  I  hope  some  of  them  will  see  this,  and  read  the 
poem,  and  profit  by  it. 

My  laughing  and  winking  young  friend  undertook 
to  procure  and  arrange  the  flowers  for  the  table,  and 
did  it  with  immense  zeal.  I  never  saw  him  look 


270  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF 

happier  than  when  he  came  in,  his  hat  saucily  on  one 
side,  and  a  cheroot  in  his  mouth,  with  a  huge  bunch 
of  tea-roses,  which  he  said  were  for  "  Madam." 

One  of  the  last  things  that  came  was  an  old  square 
box,  smelling  of  camphor,  tied  and  sealed.  It  bore  in 
faded  ink,  the  marks,  "  Calcutta,  1805. "  On  open- 
ing it  we  found  a  white  Cashmere  shawl,  with  a  very 
brief  note  from  the  dear  old  gentleman  opposite, 
saying  that  he  had  kept  this  some  years,  thinking 
he  might  want  it,  and  many  more,  not  knowing  what 
to  do  with  it,  that  he  had  never  seen  it  unfolded 
since  he  was  a  young  supercargo, — and  now,  if  she 
would  spread  it  on  her  shoulders,  it  would  make  him 
feel  young  to  look  at  it. 

Poor  Bridget,  or  Biddy,  our  red-armed  maid  of  all 
work  !  What  must  she  do  but  buy  a  small  copper 
breast-pin  and  put  it  under  "  Schoolma'am's "  plate 
that  morning,  at  breakfast  ?  And  Schoolma'am  would 
wear  it, — though  I  made  her  cover  it,  as  well  as  I 
could,  with  a  tea-rose. 

It  was  my  last  breakfast  as  a  boarder,  and  I  could 
not  leave  them  in  utter  silence. 

Good-bye — I  said, — my  dear  friends,  one  and  all  of 
you  !  I  have  been  long  with  you,  and  I  find  it  hard 
parting.  I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  thousand  court- 
esies, and  above  all  for  the  patience  and  indulgence 
with  which  you  have  listened  to  me  when  I  have  tried 
to  instruct  or  amuse  you.  My  friend  the  Professor 
(who,  as  well  as  my  friend  the  Poet,  is  unavoidably 
absent  on  this  interesting  occasion)  has  given  me 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  would  occupy  my  empty 
chair  about  the  first  of  January  next.  If  he  comes 
among  you,  be  kind  to  him,  as  you  have  been  to  me. 
May  the  Lord  bless  you  all ! — And  we  shook  hands 
all  round  the  table. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  the  breakfast  things  and 
the  cloth  were  gone.  I  looked  up  and  down  the 
length  of  the  bare  boards  over  which  I  had  so  often 
uttered  my  sentiments  and  experiences — and — Yes,  I 
am  a  man,  like  another. 


THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  271 

All  sadness  vanished,  as,  in  the  midst  of  these  old 
friends  of  mine,  whom  you  know,  and  others  a  little 
more  up  in  the  world,  perhaps,  to  whom  I  have  not 
introduced  you,  I  took  the  schoolmistress  before  the 
altar,  from  the  hands  of  the  old  gentleman  who  used 
to  sit  opposite,  and  who  would  insist  on  giving  her 
away. 

And  now  we  two  are  walking  the  long  path  in  peace 
together  The  "schoolmistress"  finds  her  skill  in 
teaching  called  for  again,  without  going  abroad  to  seek 
little  scholars.  Those  visions  of  mine  have  all  come 
true. 

I  hope  you  all  love  me  none  the  less  for  anything 
I  have  told  you.  Farewell ! 


PRINTED   BY 

TURNBULL  AND   SPEARS 

EDINBURGH 


THE 

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HENRY   FROWDE 

OXFORD   UNIVERSITY   PRESS 

LONDON,    NEW   YORK,   TORONTO   AND 

MELBOURNE 


The  World's  Classics 


/TPHE  best  recommendation  of  The  World's 
Classics  is  the  books  themselves,  which  have 
earned  unstinted  praise  from  critics  and  all 
classes  of  the  public.  Some  two  million  copies 
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standard  is  insisted  upon  is  proved  by  the  list  of 
books  already  published  and  of  those  on  the  eve 
of  publication.  A  great  feature  is  the  brief  critical 
introductions  written  by  leading  authorities  of  the 
day.  The  volumes  of  The  World's  Classics  are 
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The  Pocket  Edition  is  printed  on  thin  opaque 
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reduced,  and  the  volumes  marked  with  an  asterisk 
are  now  ready  in  this  form. 

April,  1909. 


The  World's  Classics 


LIST  OF  TITLES 

*i.  Charlotte  Bronte's  Jane  Eyre.    Fourth  Imp. 
*2.  Lamb's  Essays  of  Elia.     Fifth  Impression. 
*3.  Tennyson's  Poems.    Fifth  Impression. 
*4.  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield.    Third  Imp. 
5.  Hazlitt's  Table-Talk.     Third  Impression. 
*6.  Emerson's  Essays,    island  2nd  Series.    Fifth  Imp. 

7.  Keats's  Poems.    Third  Impression. 

8.  Dicken's  Oliver  Twist.    Second  Impression. 
*g.  Barbara's  Ingpldsby  Legends.    Fourth  Imp. 

*io.  Emily  Bronte's  Wuthering  Heights.    Third 

Impression. 
*n.  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species.    Fourth  Impression. 

12.  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress.    Second  Imp. 
*i3.  English    Songs   and    Ballads.     Compiled    by 

T.  W.  H.  CROSLAND.    Third  Impression. 
*i4.  Charlotte  Bronte's  Shirley.    Third  Impression. 
*i5.  Hazlitt's  Sketches  and  Essays.    Third  Imp. 

ID.  Herrick's  Poems.     Second  Impression. 

17.  Defoe's  Robinson  Crusoe.    Second  Impression. 

l§.  Pope's  Iliad  Of  Homer.     Second  Impression. 
*ig.  Carlyle's  Sartor  Resartus.    Third  Impression. 

20.  Swift's  Gulliver's  Travels.     Second  Impression. 
*2i.  Poe's  Tales  of  Mystery  and  Imagination. 
Third  Impression. 

22.  White's  History  of  Selborne.    Second  Imp. 
*23.  De  Quincey's  Opium  Eater.    Third  Impression. 

24.  Bacon's  Essays.    Second  Impression. 
*25.  Hazlitt's  Winterslow.    Second  Impression. 

26.  Hawthorne's  Scarlet  Letter.    Second  Imp. 
^27.  Macaulay's  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.    Second 
Impression. 

28.  Thackeray's  Henry  Esmond.    Second  Imp, 

29.  Scott's  Ivanhoe.     Second  Impression. 

30.  Emerson's  English  Traits,  and  Representa- 

tive Men.     Second  Impression. 
*3i.  George  Eliot's  Mill  on  the  Floss.    Third  Imp. 
*32.  Selected  English  Essays.    Chosen  and  Arranged 

by  W.  PEACOCK.     Fifth  Impression. 

33.  Hume's  Essays.    Second  Impression. 

34.  Burns's  Poems.    Second  Impression. 


The  World's  Classics 


List    Of  Titles— continued 

*35,  *44,  *5i>  *55,  *64,  *6g,  *74-  Gibbon's  Roman  Em- 
pire. Seven  Vols.  Vols.  I.,  II.,  Third  Impression. 
III. — V.  Second  Impression. 

*36.  Pope's  Odyssey  of  Homer.     Second  Impression. 

*37.  Dryden's  Virgil.     Second  Impression. 

*3».  Dickens's  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  Third  Impression. 

*3Q.  Longfellow's  Poems.    Vol.  I.    Second  Imp. 

40.  Sterne's  Tristram  Shandy.    Second  Impression. 

41,  48,  *53-  Buckle's  History  of  Civilization  in 

England.    Three  Vols.    Second  Impression. 
*42,  56,  *70.  Chaucer's  Works.     From  the  Text  of  Prof. 

SKEAT.    Three  Vols.    Vol.  I,  Second  Impression. 
*43-  Machiavelli's  The  Prince.    Translated  by  LUIGI 

RICCI. 

45.  English  Prose  from  Mandeville  to  Ruskin. 

Chosen  and  arranged  by  W.  PEACOCK.    Second  Imp. 

46.  Essays  and  Letters  by  Leo  Tolstoy.    Trans- 

lated by  AYLMER  MAUDE.     Second  Impression. 
*47-  Charlotte  Bronte's  Villette.    Second  Impression. 
*4Q.  AKempis'sOf  the  Imitation  of  Christ.  Second 

Impression. 

*5o.  Thackeray's  Book  of  Snobs.    Second  Imp. 
*52.  Watts-Dunton's  Aylwin.    Second  Impression. 
*54»  *59-  Adam  Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations.    Two 

Vols.     Second  Impression. 
57.  Hazlitt's  Spirit  of  the  Age. 
*58.  Robert  Browning's  Poems.  Vol.1.  Second  Imp. 
*6o.  The  Thoughts  of  Marcus  Aurelius.    A  new 

translation  by  JOHN  JACKSON. 
*6i.  Holmes's  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table. 

Second  Impression. 
*62.  Carlyle's   On    Heroes   and   Hero-Worship. 

Second  Impression. 

*63-  George  Eliot's  Adam  Bede.    Second  Impression. 
65,  *7o,  *77-  Montaigne's  Essays,     FLORIO'S  transla- 
tion.   Three  volumes. 

*66.  Borrow's  Lavengro.    Second  Impression. 
*67.  Anne  Bronte's  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall. 
*68.  Thoreau's  Walden.    Intro,  by  T.  WATTS-DUNTON. 
"71,  *8i,  *in-*ii4.  Burke's  W^orks.    Six  vols.    With 

Prefaces  by  Judge  WILLIS,  F.  W.  KAFFETY,  and  F.  H. 

WILLIS. 


The  World's  Classics 

List   Of  Titles— continued 

*72.  Twenty-three  Tales  by  Tolstoy.  Translated 
by  L.  and  A.  MAUDE. 

*73.  Sorrow's  Romany  Rye. 

*75-  Sorrow's  Bible  in  Spain. 

*78.  Charlotte  Bronte's  The  Professor,  and  the 
Poems  of  C.,  E.,  and  A.  Bronte.  Introduction 
by  THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON. 

*7Q.  Sheridan's  Plays.    Intro,  by  JOSEPH  KNIGHT. 

*8o.  George  Eliot's  Silas  Marner,  The  Lifted  Veil, 
Brother  Jacob.  Intro,  by  T.  WATTS-DUNTON. 

*82.  Defoe's  Captain  Singleton.  With  an  Introduc- 
tion by  THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON. 

*8s,  *84-  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets.  With  an  In- 
troduction  by  ARTHUR  WAUGH.  Two  Vols. 

'85.  Matthew  Arnold's  Poems.  With  an  Introduction 
by  A.  T.  QUILLER-COUCH. 

'86.  Mrs.  Gaskell's  Mary  Barton.  With  an  Intro- 
duction by  CLEMENT  SHORTER. 

*87-  Hood's  Poems.    Edited  by  WALTER  JERROLD. 

*88.  Mrs.  Gaskell's  Ruth.  With  an  Introduction  by 
CLEMENT  SHORTER. 

*8g.  Holmes's  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table. 
With  an  Introduction  by  W.  ROBERTSON  NICOLL. 

*go.  Smollett's  Travels  through  France  and 
Italy.  With  an  Introduction  by  T.  SECCOMBE. 

*gi,  *g2.  Thackeray's  Pendennis.  Introduction  by  E. 
GOSSE.  Two  Vols. 

*93-  Bacon's  Advancement  of  Learning,  and  The 
New  Atlantis.  With  an  Introduction  by  Pro- 
fessor CASE. 

*94-  Scott's  Lives  of  the  Novelists.  With  an  Intro- 
duction by  AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

*95.  Holmes's  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table.  With 
an  Introduction  by  W.  ROBERTSON  NICOLL. 

*g6,  *97,  *g8.  Motley's  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 
With  an  Introduction  by  CLEMENT  SHORTER.  3  Vols. 

*gg.  Coleridge's   Poems.     Intro,    by  A.  T.  QUILLEK- 

COUCH. 

100-108.  Shakespeare's  Plays  and  Poems.  Edited 
by  THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON,  with  a  Preface  by 
ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE.  Nine  Volumes. 

In  preparation. 

s 


The  World's  Classics 


List    Of  Titles — continued 

*iog.  George  Herbert's  Poems.    With  an  Introduction 

by  ARTHUR  WAUGH. 
*no.  Mrs.  Gaskell's  Cranford,  and  The  Moorland 

Cottage.    With  an  Intro,  by  CLEMENT  SHORTER. 
*n5-  Essays  and  Sketches  by  Leigh  Hunt.    With 

an  Introduction  by  R.  BRIMLEY  JOHNSON. 
*ii6.  Sophocles.    The  Seven  Plays.    Translated  into 

English  Verse  by  Professor  LEWIS  CAMPBELL. 
*  1 17.  Aeschylus.  The  Seven  Plays.  Translated  into 

English  Verse  by  Professor  LEWIS  CAMPBELL. 
*n8.  Horae  Subsecivae.  By  Dr.  JOHN  BROWN.  With 

an  Introduction  by  AUSTIN  DOBSON. 
*iig.  Cobbold's    Margaret    Catchpole.     With  an 

Introduction  by  CLEMENT  SHORTER. 
*i20,  *i2i.  Dickens's  Pickwick  Papers.    In  Two  Vols. 
*i22.  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures,  and  other 

Stories  and  Essays,  by  DOUGLAS  JERROLD.   With 

an  Intro,  by  WALTER  JERROLD,  and  90  illustrations. 
*i23-  Goldsmith's  Poems.    Edited  by  AUSTIN  DOBSON. 
*i24-  Hazlitt's  Lectures  on  the   English  Comic 

Writers.    With  an  Intro,  by  R.  BRIMLEY  JOHNSON. 
*i25,  *i26.  Carlyle's  French  Revolution.    With  an 

Introduction  by  C.  R.  L.  FLETCHER.    Two  Vols. 
*I27-  Home's  New  Spirit  of  the  Age.    With  an  In- 
troduction by  WALTER  JERROLD. 

*i28.  Dickens's  Great  Expectations.   With  6  illustra- 
tions by  WARWICK  GOBLE. 

"129.  Jane  Austen's  Emma.    Intro,  by  E.  V.  LUCAS. 
*I30,  *I3I.  Don  Quixote.    Jervas's  translation.    With  an 

Intro,  and  Notes  by  J.  FITZMAURICE- KELLY.    2  Vols. 
"132.  Leigh  Hunt's  The  Town.    With  an  Introduction 

and  Notes  by  AUSTIN  DOBSON,  and  a  Frontispiece. 
*i33-  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury,  with  additional 

Poems.    Second  Impression. 
*i34-  Aristophanes.    Frere's   translation   of  the 

Acharnians,    Knights,    Birds,    and    Frogs. 

With  an  Introduction  by  W.  W.  MERRY. 
*i35-  Marlowe's  Dr.  Faustus,  and  Goethe's  Faust 

(Anster's  Translation).  Intro,  by  A.  W.  WARD. 
*I36.  Butler's  Analogy.  Ed,  W.  E.  GLADSTONE. 
*I37-  Browning's  Poems.  Vol.  II  (Dramatic  Lyrics  and 

Romances,  Men  and  Women,  and  Dramatis  Personae). 

6 


The  World's  Classics 


List   Of  Titles— continued 

•138.  Cowper's  Letters.  Selected,  with  an  Introduction, 
by  E.  V.  LUCAS. 

*I3Q.  Gibbon's  Autobiography.  With  Introduction 
by  J.  B.  BURY. 

*I40.  Trollope's  The  Three  Clerks.  With  an  Intro- 
duction by  W.  TEIGNMOUTH  SHORE. 

*i4i.  Anne  Bronte's  Agnes  Grey. 

*i42.  Fielding's  Journal  of  a  voyage  to  Lisbon. 
With  Introduction  and  Notes  by  AUSTIN  DOBSON,  and 
Two  Illustrations. 

*i43-  Wells's  Joseph  and  his  Brethren.  Introduc- 
tion by  A.  C.  SWINBURNE,  and  a  Note  on  Rossetti  and 
Charles  Wells  by  THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON. 

#144.  Carlyle's  Life  of  John  Sterling.  With  an  In 
troduction  by  W.  HALE  WHITE. 

*i45-  Ruskin's  Sesame  and  Lilies,  and  The  Ethics 
of  the  Dust.  Ruskin  House  edition. 

*i46.  Ruskin's  Time  and  Tide,  and  The  Crown  of 
Wild  Olive.  Ruskin  House  edition. 

*i47-  Ruskin's  A  Joy  for  Ever,  and  The  Two 
Paths.  Ruskin  House  edition. 

*i48.  Ruskin's  Unto  this  Last,  and  Munera  Pul- 
veris.  Ruskin  House  edition. 

*I49-  Reynold's  Discourses.    Intro.  AUSTIN  DOBSON. 
150.  Washington  Irving's  Conquest  of  Granada. 

*I5I,  *I52.  Lesage's  Gil  Bias.  (Smollett's  translation.) 
Introduction  and  Notes  by  J.  FITZMAURICE-KELLY. 
Two  Vols. 

•"153.  Carlyle's  Past  and  Present.  Introduction  by 
G.  K.  CHESTERTON. 

*i54.  Mrs.  Gaskell's  North  and  South.  Introduction 
by  CLEMENT  SHORTER. 

*i55-  George  Eliot's  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.  In- 
troduction by  ANNIE  MATHESON. 


Other  volumes  in  preparation 


The  Boys'  Classics 

POTT  8vo  (SIZE  6x4  INCHES). 
CLOTH i/-  net 

SULTAN-RED   LEATHER,  limp, 

gilt  top 1/6  net 


1.  The  Captain  of  the  Guard.    By  JAMES  GRANT. 

2.  Mr.  Midshipman  Easy.    By  Captain  MARRYAT. 

3.  The  Scottish  Chiefs.    By  JANE  PORTER. 

4.  The  Tower  of  London.    By  W.  HARRISON  AINS- 

WORTH  . 

5.  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans.     By  J.  FENIMORE 

COOPER. 

6.  Robinson  Crusoe.    By  DANIEL  DEFOE. 

7.  The  King's  Own.    By  Captain  MARRYAT.    With  Six 

Illustrations  by  WARWICK  GOBLE. 

8.  Harold.    By  Lord  LYTTON.    With  Six  Illustrations  by 

CHARLES  BURTON. 

9.  The    Rifle    Rangers.     By  Captain  MAYNE  REID. 

With  Six  Illustrations  by  J.  E.  SUTCLIFFE. 
10.  The  Scalp  Hunters.     By  Captain  MAYNE  REID. 

With  Six  Illustrations  by  A.  H.  COLLINS. 
n.  Captain  Singleton.    By  DANIEL  DEFOE.    With  Six 

Illustrations  by  WARWICK  GOBLE. 

Other  volumes  in  preparation. 


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Date  Due 


yw    ** 

^1966 

OCT  2  5"! 

9^'V 

. 

Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.  1137 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  259  383  6 


